Department of Archives
by Freebooter 4Ever
Summary: The Department of Archives never garnered much attention - until it merged with Applied Sciences. Lyn, a poor artist-turned-archivist is swept into a life full of mystery, intrigue and danger when her world collides with the Caped Crusader. Bruce/OC
1. Prologue: Friday

Disclaimer: Don't own Batman

1: Friday

One requirement to being an artist is a picture perfect memory. See something once, never forget it…that's me. My weapons of choice are a plain sketchbook and a pencil. Cheap, easy to transport, and versatile. My victims are the good people of Gotham; one by one succumbing to my favorite art form: portraiture. Of course, the easiest way to get someone to sit for a portrait is to get them talking. But, unfortunately, the most interesting people to talk to, let alone draw, are usually not the wealthiest And even a worthless pre-med school drop out needs to earn a living somehow. Which is how my artistic memory got me a job with the highest company in Gotham.

No top jobs for me, however. I'm stuck at the bottom with no where to go but up…literally. Of all the tens of floors of Wayne Tower, it's fitting that the archives be tucked away in the basement. Because no one remembers archives unless they have to. My position at Wayne Enterprises is about as dead as the enigmatic, billionaire owner himself (which is just speculation, of course).

Not that I hold any resentment for being saddled with such an under-appreciated, under-looked job. In a city like Gotham, sometimes it's best to go ignored. Draw too much attention to yourself, and that attention might become unwanted. The mob has a habit of searching out the best and then hiring or blackmailing those people into working for them. I would rather die than work for the mob, which is saying a lot since I'm probably the most cowardly person you could ever meet.

But I'm safe since an archivist holds no particularly outstanding skills, and an archivist for a gigantic corporation such as Wayne Enterprises gets paid a good deal of money to look after boring reports that no one really wants to deal with unless absolutely necessary. In all the years I've been here, I could count on one hand the number of times the CEO, Earle, has personally come down to request information. Most of the time I'm left to my own devices to research, organize, and store any and all information pertaining to the history of Mr. Wayne's company. The original Mr. Wayne set a strange precedent for his company's archives. One that I'm not sure even Earle is aware of. When I arrived in Gotham city, 6 years ago, recently graduated from undergraduate college, a failure at med school, and desperate, the previous archivist explained to me in full detail just what went into Wayne Tower's expansive basement. It seems that from the start the company felt the history of Gotham itself was just as important as the history of Wayne Enterprises. You would be amazed at the number of books and papers filled with information on, well, everything…and everyone. Heck, even I'm in here. Though it doesn't have much to say about the daughter of a championed doctor who moved across the country at age 15 to go to boarding school and never came back.

The archives do have a lot to say about my father, but I haven't read that.

I suppose most would say archiving was a boring job. But for someone like me with no other experience, and a love of research, it really is a dream come true. But it does get awful lonely sometimes. Which is why, when Applied Sciences was moved underground, literally and figuratively, and Lucius Fox was forced down with it, I found myself welcoming the change of pace.

Personally, I believe Applied Sciences was created with the sole purpose of keeping Mr. Fox quiet. He was greatly against the company going public and remained the one board member who embodied everything Thomas Wayne stood for. To Earle, Mr. Fox was an interference. Looking over the records of the past 7 years, it becomes increasingly apparent to me that Wayne Enterprises is turning more and more into Earle Enterprises. I like to believe that the idealistic Thomas Wayne would never have used his company's fortune to fund the creation of weapons.

But why ask me? I only have the keys, not to mention the knowledge of the labyrinth of filing cabinets, to the most complete, top secret history of Wayne Enterprises and Gotham city. Someday they'll wake up and realize what they've been neglecting.

I'm not sure if I wish for that attention or not.

"Good morning Miss Pearl," a strong, kind hearted voice nudges me out of my reverie. Realizing I was staring blankly at the computer monitor, I hastily get back to work. On my computer I tab over to my day's checklist and check the "five minutes of thinking" box. There goes my break time.

"Good morning, Mr. Fox," I reply, offering one of my rare genuine smiles. I believe there is nothing better than to smile, really smile, at another person. And capturing a true smile in graphite on paper is nearly impossible. I save mine only for the people I respect and admire.

Mr. Fox smiles back and begins to make his way through the maze of shelves. Poor Mr. Fox wasn't even given a division of the archive basement to work in. Instead he was relegated to the lowest storage floor of the tower, only accessible by a elevator in the very back of archives. Earle certainly does a good job of getting people out of the way.

I sigh, thinking about how I at least willingly chose my dead end line of work, and proceed to read through my large stack of daily newspapers. The top one, in large front page headlines, reads "Missing billionaire officially declared dead after 7 years" and underneath " Beloved family butler inherits an astounding fortune". Why couldn't I have chosen to do servant work for a rich man who goes off and disappears?

I create a new document and start typing the main points of the news story into the computer. I also add my own sneaking suspicion (highlighted in a friendly blue so as to separate personal opinion from the widely accepted opinions also known as facts. One of the few new-fangled techniques I thought I'd personally introduce to Wayne archives.) there is more to the story than the newspapers let on. For example, the butler has yet to make any sort of personal statement that Bruce Wayne is in fact dead. And the butler has yet to actually withdraw any of the trust fund money. Add to that the fact that Earle seemed more annoyed than usual the day he found out that the butler inherited everything, and I have a hunch that going public was initially a move to transfer Bruce Wayne's shares to Earle.

I go through the rest of the papers, recording what is useful and discarding what is not, including all the articles claiming the depression has ended. As if all my research on the city's economic situation doesn't say otherwise. Sure, after Thomas and Martha Wayne's death things appeared to get better, but the appearance has nothing to do with reality. Rich people didn't change anything, they just made it look like they did. When I finish with the newspapers I move on to file the large stack of the company's new reports.

Halfway through my day I've checked off two more boxes on my list: "Newspapers" and "Daily reports". I smile in anticipation of my hour lunch break. Snatching my bag from behind the desk I throw it across my shoulder and make my way to the front elevator. Some days Mr. Fox comes upstairs to chat with me during my break, but not today. Today it's the streets of Gotham. I wander through the crowds, taking everything in. As I pull out my sketchbook and pencil, I keep an eye out for someone interesting. I spot someone sitting at a quiet little café; a middle aged woman staring into her coffee with a brooding, worried look. I go in, order a coffee I won't drink, and head outside to the table.

"May I sit here?" I ask, smiling pleasantly.

She looks up warily, glances at the other empty tables, and grudgingly nods. Picking up her coffee, she visibly shifts so as to get as far away from me as possible without actually getting up.

This is a good sign. If people don't want to talk they'll just leave.

"Nice day," I say. She hums in agreement.

"Lynnet Pearl" I add, offering my hand.

"Barbara" she says. We shake hands.

"What do you want?" she asks, sounding tired.

"Can I draw your portrait?" I ask, gesturing to my sketchbook. Barbara stares at me like I'm crazy. I open to a new page to show I'm serious, and she relents.  
"Sure I guess," Barbara sighs.

"So what's your story?" I ask conversationally as I settle back and begin to draw.

"Sorry?"

"How did you end up in Gotham?"

"I don't know," she looks away.

"Everyone has a story" I prompt.

She sighs again, watches me draw, then says, "I guess it started when I married him. The worrying, I mean."

It turns out Barbara is Barbara Gordon, wife of, according to her, the one good cop left in Gotham. She says this resentfully, convinced that being good isn't worth it if it brings danger on those you love. In the course of an hour, I find out more than I ever would have guessed about how hard it is to be the wife of someone willing to sacrifice everything for Gotham. Barbara described countless sleepless nights in which he never comes home, the way he toes the line between acting a member of the corrupt cops or a rat, and the painful realization that all this effort yields very little results. At the end of an hour I have two sketchbook pages full of drawings and scribbles. I thank her for her time and explain to her I'm a freelance artist trying to make it in Gotham city. She smiles at me, a genuine smile, and I am again gratified that another person will be returning to the spot where a strange woman once asked to do a portrait of them, in hopes that they'll find that good listener once more.

But I won't be back again. Too many people, too little time.

I get back to my desk and open my checklist, check "lunch", and start a new document labeled "Barbara Gordon". I scan in my pages and save them to a separate space in the database that is purely electronic files. I've taken the liberty of putting my own personal research into the archives, but I won't go so far as to waste tons of paper for what most people would probably consider useless. Or at least people like Earle would consider useless.

But if anyone wants to know information about the frazzled, overworked lawyer who found himself randomly taking time to answer the bizarre questions of a persistent artist, or a somewhat insane homeless person who was only too willing to tell an interested person all about his theory of the universe, or, say, an average girl named "Lynnet Pearl"…all they have to do is ask.

I check off the box "1 hour talk with stranger".

At the end of my work day, after all the boxes including "1 hour end of day clean up" are checked, I pack up my things to leave. Mr. Fox passes my desk on his way out.

"Goodbye Miss Pearl," he says, "Hope you had a good day"

"I did sir, thank you," I reply, "See you tomorrow"

And he leaves. I'm a little amazed at Mr. Fox's perseverance. He still comes to work, every day, though what work he actually does down there is anyone's guess. In the past year, Applied Sciences has become a department full of mysteries so secret my archive files only hint at them. If I'm ever allowed down there, that will be the first thing I change.

I depart Wayne Tower, stopping for a few minutes to check up on the receptionist, the first entry in my sketchbooks, and board the train for home. Sitting across from me is a shabby man sleeping with his hood up. Bored, I pull out my sketchbook and begin to idly draw his slouched form.

"Please don't do that"

I jerk my head up, surprised to realize he's awake.

"Don't do what?" I ask the hood innocently.

"Don't draw me" He responds. His voice is low and gruff, yet oddly reassuring rather than menacing.

"I'm afraid your mistaken sir," I reply sarcastically, "I was drawing the scenery behind you."

A snort of laughter, "You can't have been…we're moving" he comments.

"Exactly," I confirm, "which is why I was looking up so often. Its quite a challenge to catch a twenty second glimpse of buildings and then sketch from memory."

A gleaming smile appears from beneath the hood. But before I can react to the difference between the brilliant smile and the dirty state of his clothes, he's pulled the hood down and slouched further back.

"Why shouldn't I draw you?" I ask, "It's not doing any harm."

A pause.

"I'm a wanted criminal, it would give my disguise away," He answers.

It's my turn to smile, "What's your story then wanted criminal?" I ask.

"If I told you, that would defeat the purpose of you not drawing my likeness"

"But talking might make you feel better."

"What are you some kind of therapist?"

"At least I don't go around snapping at innocent people on the train"

Another pause.

"Who are you?" The question is thrown at me as if the man can't believe he's actually having this conversation with an obvious freak like me.

"An artist," I say simply.

"Yes, I think that was made annoyingly clear," He says.

"Then the question is…who are you, sir?" I return.

"One who does not need therapy," he growls with a hint of amusement.

"You brought it up," I say in defense, "Not to worry, your anonymity will be protected. This is my stop" I get up but before I leave I look back at him.

"You shall forever be known as mysterious orange hoodie guy in my sketchbook" I announce haughtily and turn to get off the train.

"Don't forget the baseball cap" He adds. I laugh despite myself as I watch the train pull away.


	2. Week 1:Monday

2: Monday

When I settle into my desk the next Monday, for the first time in my life, I don't feel like working. I pop open my checklist and stare glumly at the newly printed Gotham newspapers in front of me.

Perhaps it's time I took a vacation.

I had just begun to imagine myself sitting on a beach somewhere doing nothing but drawing when I hear the familiar ping of the elevator. Surprised, I glance at the clock…11:42...surely Mr. Fox has already come in today. In order to seem industrious, I bend down over the newspapers, scanning for important information.

My intense scanning is interrupted by a polite but obtrusive cough.

"Yes?" I ask, looking up but pointedly remaining hunched over the newspapers. I'm not interrupted that easily.

"I'm looking for Applied Sciences. Clearly I took a wrong turn somewhere," the sleek looking man standing in front of me offers up a harmless half smile.

What does a rich, well dressed man like this want with a department like Applied Sciences? It takes me a couple seconds to get over my disbelief.

"Actually you haven't quite made it there yet," I say.

He arches an eyebrow and looks around, "No where to go but filing cabinets" he argues.

Poor, confused Rich Guy is obviously clueless.

"Follow me. People have been known to enter the labyrinth and never return," I counter dramatically, standing up. My efforts at sarcasm are rewarded with a mischievous smirk as he strolls casually along beside me.

"This is the department of archives," I explain, "Everything you ever needed to know - and some things you really don't - about Wayne Enterprises"

"Sounds fascinating" He says seriously.

"It is," I say defensively, in response to the feigned interest plain on his face. He grins innocently at me.

"What do you know about the department of Applied Sciences?" He asks

'Not a lot, really," I reply, "There are plenty of rumors` but nothing has ever been confirmed."

"What are the rumors then?"

"Why so interested? Not planning on stealing any secret technologies are you?"

"Something like that…yeah."

"You're joking…right?" I ask. Now he's got me curious. He laughs lightly.

"I need some gear for exploring caves. Safety first, you know." He says, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world.

"Spelunking huh?" I say

"Sorry?"

"Spelunking, you know, caving as a hobby," I say, "Anyone who's so dedicated in their hobbies to need technological protection should know their terms."

He has the decency to look slightly ashamed of himself.

"Anyway," I add, "I doubt if you'll find anything but military technologies down below. That seems to be what this company is most interested in nowadays."

"We'll see about that," he says, completely seriously.

Who is this guy, I want to ask. But something tells me I don't want to know. Perhaps he's just some executive with wads of money to waste on expensive new gadgets. He must be someone within Wayne Enterprises since both the Archives and Applied Sciences are private departments. I make a mental note to ask my executive friend about it later.

We reach a dark looking elevator and I step up to push the open button for him.

"Here we are sir," I say, my face deadpan, "When you get back just press this call button here and I'll come escort you out." He starts to chuckle until he realizes that I'm pointing to a real button that reads "assistance".

"You weren't kidding about those poor lost souls in the maze of archives were you?" He asks, the corners of his mouth twitching into a grin.

"It is a form of job security sir," I say, smiling, "Make sure to be the only one who can navigate this place and I can never be replaced"

He laughs, his face breaking into the first genuine smile since he came down here. A smile I distinctly recognize from somewhere.

"I'm Lynnet Pearl, by the way" I add as the elevator doors begin to close.

"Nice to meet you Miss Pearl," His answer is partially cut off.

He ignored my prompting; mystery man remains a mystery. I grunt in frustration and head back to my desk. Before I can get to work reading my newspapers, however, I find myself searching the computer for spelunking information. I put together a list of supplies:

Hard Hat (possibly with lamp)

Back up light

Warm under layer

Hard outer suit

Waterproof boots and wetsocks

Knee and elbow pads

Ropes (knots: figure-of-eight-loop, bowline, alpine butterfly, and Italian hitch)

Bolts, slings, carabiners

Just in case he's as clueless as he seems, and maybe as a bit of a hint, I add a list of safety precautions. I also search through articles on ideal caving supplies, since I suppose if the man is rich enough to buy Applied Science's technology, he probably can afford the best. I include grappling hooks and a line gun on my list. I figure Fox most likely would have a line gun since it was a military technology. Just as I finish sending the pages to my printer I hear a buzz and a red light pops up on my screen: "assistance needed".

I make my way back through the filing cabinets, this time going a much more direct (and cunningly hidden) route than the circuitous one I took with Rich Guy.

"You rang" I say dryly, coming up from behind him. Startled, he straightens up and turns around, eyebrows raised at me.

"You're like my butler," He comments.

I stare blankly at him, unsure of whether this was a compliment or snide remark. Without another word I lead him off in the opposite direction I came from. This guy doesn't deserve to know my special route. Three turns around filing cabinets later, my curiosity gets the better of me.

"So did you find anything worthwhile?" I ask.

He smiles. Once again I find myself wondering where I know that smile from.

"If I told you the hidden things in Applied Sciences, we may have to lock you down there forever," He responds.

"Its only one floor down, I think I could live with that," I say, laughing.

"Still," he says, "I think it's best that Archives doesn't know absolutely everything. We need to keep a few secrets from you, to keep you guessing."

I shrug, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing that I'm dying to know what's in the department below me. When we reach my desk he starts to head to the elevator, but I realize I haven't given him the lists I printed off.

"Wait!" I say, holding out the sheets, "I compiled these for you."

He looks surprised but he takes the papers and reads them over anyway.

"Thanks," He says. He turns to go, then hesitates. Slowly pivoting to face me, he asks guardedly, "Could you find some more information for me?"

"Sure, what do you need?" I ask.

"I need a…hypothetical list of possible cover companies that seem legitimate," He says. I can feel his gaze gauging my reaction. Whatever he's planning to use this information for is probably illegal. But, it's not like I have much else to do. Creating dummy companies would be a nice diversion from filing, hypothetically of course. And he has a nice smile.

"I think I could do that," I say cautiously, "I don't suppose you could tell me what they're for."

"Not really," He says, wincing a little.

I nod, "Well as long as its in support of Wayne Enterprises and not against it, and as long as I believe its purely hypothetical, I'll do it. It would add some excitement to my archiving, anyway."

"Trust me, you don't need to worry about supporting Wayne Enterprises," He says, laughing. His gaze flicks towards the newspapers spread across my desk. I get the feeling I'm missing out on an inside joke. He starts to leave again.

"Who are you?" I blurt out.

He looks back at me, smiles, and says "Bruce Wayne". He gets in the open elevator, and I'm fairly certain his last view of me is my mouth hanging open in a state of shock.

Bruce Wayne? The supposed dead guy?

I hastily leaf through the newspapers on my desk and there, on page one of _Gotham Daily_, is just about the largest photo possible of the man who had just walked through my department. And across the top, in bold, impossible-to-miss typeface, is "Bruce Wayne Lives!"

Now I know why he was laughing so hard. I guess I got what I deserved for putting off my daily routine. To cheer myself up I research all the files pertaining to old, unheard of, or shut down companies that Wayne Enterprises ever created or did business with. I figure that since Bruce Wayne was the one asking for this list, he would appreciate it if the fake companies could be connected with real ones. Sort of gives it more legitimacy that way.

It wasn't until I had brainstormed a catalog of over fifty companies that I realized I had spent my lunch break working for Rich Guy. Life just isn't fair sometimes. Especially since at 1:00 Mary brings down the company reports and I end up working double time to finish everything by 5:00.

At 5:00 I wave goodbye as Mr. Fox leaves.

At 5:30 I start using fragments instead of sentences.

At 6:25 I realize that if I don't get going I'll miss the last non-deadly train to the narrows.

I shut down my computers, turn off the lights, and fly into the elevator only to run into Chad, who apparently was coming down to see me.

"Hi, I was just thinking of you!" I say.

"You were?" he asks, sounding surprised.

"Yeah, I was going to ask you who Bruce Wayne was, but then I found out he was…Bruce Wayne," I finish lamely.

"I…see?" Chad replied, "Uh…do you want a ride home?"

"No. Thanks for the offer, but I think I can make the 6:30 train," I answer.

We get off the elevator and I start to head in the direction of the train station.

"Please?" he asks, taking hold of my arm, "I need to ask you for a favor."

"But I kind of want to meet someone on…oh never mind. What do you need?" I say, switching my direction to the parking lot.

Chad takes a deep breath.

"Tomorrow nights dinner party at Earle's," he says very fast, fully aware of the backlash he's about to receive.

"Oh no!" I groan, "You know I hate those. It's always so incredibly awkward. Them pretending they don't know me from work, or worse not recognizing me from work."

"Lyn," he tries to interrupt, but fails as he's not the most outspoken person in the world.

"And if I have to pretend to be your girlfriend one more time to get them off your back, I shall scream. And I just know Mrs. Earle gets some sort of sick satisfaction watching me try to figure out what random new utensil I'm supposed to use for some usually disgusting dish."

"Lyn you know I never asked you to pretend…."

"Not to mention having to listen to them talk over you like you don't exist, treating us like we're washed up old historians with our heads under a rock. At least when I finally told them we were dating they stopped berating you about being single."

"But Lyn I don't mind how they…"

"What's in it for me?" I ask, swiveling around to face him, arms crossed.

He smiles in relief, usually I don't give in this easily.

"We'll go to the library and spend hours watching history channel reruns then start fact checking using the books." Chad announces.

I smile, only Chad truly understands my obsession with history and chronological order.

"We do that all the time anyway," I argue.

"Yes, but this time we'll break our rule, skip to World War Two, and it'll be all that more exciting." He says eagerly.

I laugh, "Not good enough. You want me to attend this dinner, then I get to drag you to something as equally awful for you."

Chad thinks for awhile then his face lights up.

"I got it! Gotham Art Museum," he proposes.

"Getting better…" I respond. Chad may share my love of history, but he certainly does not like art.

"Gotham Art Museum Biennale Exhibit" he adds, grinning from ear to ear.

I stop in front of his car to turn around and stare at him, an expression of pure joy on my face.

"But…" I start.

"I…well…Wayne Executives, even less important executives like me…are invited to a special opening" he stutters.

"Then you can count me in tomorrow night," I announce, sliding into the passenger seat.

"Thank goodness," he says, starting the car.

"That's really a sacrifice on your part," I say, "I know how you feel about contemporary art."

"It's also a month away"

"Don't think you're going to get out of it. Especially if Mrs. Earle decides to break out the caviar again. Who says you can't have caviar with silver anyway." I add bitterly.

He laughs, "You are Gotham's top archivist. And you can't even do a little caviar research?"

"It's not a matter of being able to. It's a matter of being inclined to do it."

Halfway to my house he asks, "Who was it you wanted to meet on the train anyway?"

"My real boyfriend"

He looks scandalized.

"Not seriously," I say, "No, it was just some strange guy who couldn't be bothered to talk to me."

"Ah, another of your victims."

"Yeah except this one refused to react."

"Be careful, you never know…"

"It was fine. I'm a good enough judge of character to know. I can tell by their reaction if they're going to prove dangerous or just standoffish. This guy…was something different. He wanted to be noticed. But he didn't. It was odd."

"Just…be careful." Chad says.

"I am," I assure him. I stare blankly out the window, thinking of mysterious orange hoodie guy (with a baseball cap), when a beautiful, be-speckled man with crazy eyes distracts me.

"Let me off here," I say.

"But we're still a block away," Chad protests.

"I know," I reply, "But that man looks interesting." I start to pull out my sketchbook.

"All right," he gives in, sighing.

I step out of the car and start to follow the guy. As luck would have it he stopped to wait outside an apartment door. I casually strolled up to him.

"Hi," I say, arming myself with my friendly smile.

He looks at me, kills me with his eyes, and looks away without moving an inch.

"Nice to meet you to," I say and continue on to my apartment, fast.

I don't - can't- forget those eyes. Even behind glasses, the cruel intelligence was stunningly clear.


	3. Week 1:Tuesday

3: Tuesday

The bright glare of cloudy Gotham City can be blinding. Today was no exception. I grab my sunglasses (extra large to fit over my regular glasses), and set off for the train wondering why Gotham can never seem to have a normal sunny day. Once I arrive at Wayne Enterprises, my morning routine begins as per usual. However, to make up for the slacking yesterday, I skip my five minutes of space-out time. By 11:50 I had every newspaper dissected and filed. Enormously proud of my productivity, I got ready for lunch early. I was just set to leave when the elevator pinged. The archives are suddenly and unusually popular lately.

"Lyn! Have I got a story to tell you!"

I look up to see Mary tottering over in her high heels, a huge smile on her face and the day's reports clutched in her hands.

"You're early!" I exclaim, surprised, "I was preparing to go out for lunch."

"I know," Mary says excitedly, "I had hoped to catch you. I'll just leave these here and we can go get a sandwich at that new place around the corner."

"Actually I…"

"No arguments, you'll love this," Mary protests, plopping the reports on my desk and grabbing my hand. She drags me, still dazed, to the elevator. "I know how you like to collect stories."

"Stories as in people's stories, Mary," I argue, "Not just sensational news."

"Well this is bigger then sensational news. Cause it happened to me!" Mary says.

I don't think there is any way of getting out of this. As we're walking towards the café I try to force some sense out of her.

"In one word, what exactly happened to you?" I ask desperately.

"Really really hot guy wearing all black and a ski mask on my fire escape" She replies.

"Okay, not one word…but I'll admit you've got my interest," I say.

We reach the sandwich place and before I can stop her Mary has ordered two salads, water, and fruit for the both of us, pulled me along to a table, and sat down. I don't bother telling her I haven't the taste for salads.

"Do you mind if I draw while we talk?" I ask, with a slight hint of misery in my voice.

"Don't you always?" She asks, oblivious to the growling hunger in my stomach, "Anyway, let me go back to the start."

"So, you know how I've been stuck in this crappy apartment across from the Major Crimes Unit building, right?" She begins, "Well…now I find out it might not be too bad after all because just last night it was the scene of an extremely horrifying yet thrilling police escapade."

"Depending on how you look at it, sure," I agree, giving up trying to catch her ecstatic hand gestures and ending up scribbling a blur across the page.

"It somehow involved that mustached cop guy, Gordon I think his name was," she continues, "Because I heard him yelling and then saw him from my window. But that's besides the point. The masked guy jumped - yes jumped! - onto my fire escape from the top of the MCU. It was the craziest thing. You'd have to be insane to even consider it. But maybe he was an escaped convict…"

"Or maybe a lost bank robber…" I opinion, gloomily submitting to the fact that Mary's mouth was also becoming a blur.

"Oh but he was well muscled! You wouldn't believe! And I could tell even through that thick black suit he was wearing. Of course, all I could see of his face was his mouth but I'm sure the rest looks just as nice." She lapsed into a few seconds of dreamy silence.

"Getting back to the actual story…" I prompt, but am secretly happy for the extra minute of sketching time.

"That's about it, really. He jumped onto my fire escape, hit the window with an awful pound, and then climbed to the roof. I still have no idea why it happened. But I have theories. And maybe you're right, maybe he's a misunderstood bank robber who…"

I tune out Mary's fantasies to ponder my own. The obvious answer would be that the guy was some kind of criminal. But perhaps that was too obvious. After all, if he had been dangerous, wouldn't the cops have perused more aggressively? Not to mention it probably would have made at least the police blotter in the newspaper. I sigh and rest my head on my hands. Too many mysteries were occurring lately. As an archivist, I prefer when everything is known. Facts don't have to be straightforward - in fact most often they are not - I just like to have all of them.

"Lyn, what's wrong? Headache? I know the best cure for those…" She glances down then picks up my sketchbook I had set on the table, "Oh god what an awful view of me. I hope that one gets destroyed. No offence but the first one you did of me was the best."

I look at the blurry, moving drawing and almost laugh. It manages to capture her personality better than anything I'd done before.

"It has emotion," I say, and before she can respond we're interrupted by the salad dishes appearing before us. I stare glumly down at the limp bits of green scattered across my plate and hope beyond all hopes that tonight's dinner at Earle's is at least edible, even if I can't stomach the company.

"Do you think I should still plan on switching apartments?" Mary asks, "I mean, I'm probably safest right next to the police anyway."

"I think if, as Wayne Enterprises' receptionist, you can afford a better apartment, and if nicer surroundings is what you want, then you should go for it. You'll never see the bank robber again anyway." I say.

"True," she thinks on this for awhile. Then her face lights up, "But speaking of hot guys, have you seen Wayne yet? He smiles at me every time he comes in. I think I'm in love."

"Or he's just nice," I say cavalierly. But simultaneously I'm wondering why I have to work for those smiles.

"Maybe," she concedes, "And my dating chances with him are probably just as high as with the masked man."

"If I see anything in the paper, I'll let you know."

"About Bruce Wayne?"

"No, the masked man," I say, lost in thought.

"I knew you'd be interested!" Mary says, triumphant.

"It's just…" I start but Mary's cell phone alarm starts beeping.

"Time to go! If I don't get back to the desk in five minutes the entire business might collapse to the ground," Mary beams at me and glides out of her chair, "It was nice talking to you, and seriously keep a look out for any hot guys in masks."

"Promise," I say, hauling myself up and dumping my sketchbook back in my bag. As we walk back to Wayne Enterprises, Mary gives me a complete run down on the pros and cons of a new planner software she's been trying. I politely listen, holding back temptation to brag about my simple-yet-effective checklist system. All it takes is a doc file and bullet points.

"I know you think planners are pointless, Lyn, but you only think that because you do the same thing every day. The business people I work with have busy schedules that change, sometimes on less than a day's notice." Mary says.

Sometimes I think she reads minds.

"I like my routine," I say.

"I know," she laughs. We part ways, her to the desk and me to the elevator.

I punch the down button and the door opens to reveal Bruce Wayne. I stand to the side to let him pass until I realize he's not getting out.

"Going down?" he asks, catching the door before it closes.

"Yeah," I reply, "I just…didn't know you were."

He makes something between a grimace and a grin, and nods. The result is an awkwardly silent ride down.

"What hobby have you taken up now?" I ask as we step into the Archives.

"BASE jumping," He replies with a smug smile.

"Base jumping?" I ask, completely lost.

"You know, Building, Antenna, Span, Earth, jumping. BASE jumping," he says.

I'm speechless.

"Someone's been doing their own research," I say.

"Yup."

"You enjoy shocking people, don't you?" I ask in jest.

A startled pause on his end of the conversation.

We reach my desk and out of habit I start to lead him through the short way to the back elevator without realizing it.

"Care to explain what base jumping entails?" I question.

"Isn't that what your archives are for?" he returns, eyebrows furrowed in mock concern.

I have a sudden urge to poke him. Instead I hit the elevator button with a little more force than usual.

"I'll prepare a supplies and safety list for you when you return, sir," I say stuffily, in my best butler imitation.

"I wouldn't expect less," he says, smiling, "And I think I like the long way better."

I stand in front of the closed elevator for a while berating myself for being distracted. Distracted by Wayne one-upping my archives. I head back, the long way this time, and immediately begin researching BASE jumping (the first thing I found out was that the random words he was spouting actually made up the acronym for the hobby). Apparently BASE jumping is an extreme sport or hobby more dangerous than sky diving or parachuting, and has a tendency towards being done illegally. Wayne certainly enjoys illegal activities. I make my safety precautions list extra long and include some examples of jumps gone horribly wrong in the hopes of scaring him out of this new hobby. Though, considering he's a guy, and he needs something to waste his money on, the death threats will probably be alluring rather than off-putting. Then again, perhaps that was my intent. I also include the many illegal places to BASE jump from. The Russian student Ossovski's attempt to jump from the Eifel tower receives a special highlighter color. Or Bruce might prefer Meru Peak in India where the world record for highest jump was set. I print the papers out and set them aside. I note the time. Wayne's visit to Applied Sciences is rather long today.

Suddenly a loud boom, followed by a rumble underneath my seat causes me to jump.

My heart racing, I clutch the desk and survey the damage. I had overturned Mary's neat, neglected stack of reports in my panic. When Wayne got back up here, I was going to have to have a word with him about appropriate, professional conduct. One does not go blowing things up when one is below the Archives department. What if the small quake had knocked over a filing cabinet? I was sweeping all the papers up into one heap, calculating the number of hours Wayne's mishap was adding to my schedule, when the hateful assistance button began to beep. Fuming, I storm off to the elevator.

"What in the world were you doing down there!" I demand.

'Who me?' His innocent look says.

"The boom came from the floor below, it must have been you. Or Mr. Fox, but I believe Mr. Fox has some sense," I said, making it clear that I felt Wayne, in contrast, was senseless.

"Sorry, Miss Pearl, I have no idea what you're talking about," He responds.

I glare at him while he looks on, blamelessly.

"Then have fun finding your way back," I hiss.

I turn on my heel, head off in an entirely new direction, and sashay between dozens of filing cabinets to my desk.

Half an hour later, after all the reports have been neatly rearranged, Wayne shows up looking miserable.

"Okay, you win," he says, leaning against the nearest cabinet, "I promise to never get on your bad side again."

Unfortunately for Wayne, the cabinet he's leaning on is the one I've been trying to get the janitor to fix for years. A sad, pitiful creak issues from the cabinet's metal joints and it groans to the ground, almost in slow motion. As this is happening, Wayne realizes what he's done, looks horrified, and tries to stop the cabinet. But he's too late. I scream, "No!" as the files spill out onto the floor in a horrible muddle. I'm too shocked to do anything, let alone berate the man who just ruined my night.

"Or maybe I'll just order directional signs to be put up down here," Wayne muses.

"Do you realize what you have done?" I ask, accusation dripping from my voice, "I have a dinner party to go to tonight. And now there is no way I'll be able to get my work done in time. I spent all of yesterday's lunch researching for you, and you repay me by knocking over a cabinet and making things explode underneath me."

"It didn't explode…just boosted at the wrong time," Wayne corrects me, nearly laughing.

"What are you talking about?" I ask, exasperated.

"Never mind."

I make my way towards him in the sea of papers, trying to salvage a few. I'm scrambling around sorting when I notice Bruce Wayne, Gotham's prince and billionaire, is on his knees helping me stack files. Maybe I judged his character a bit too hastily.

"Thank you," I say, albeit a little grudgingly, when we're finished.

"I'll have a new cabinet sent down by tomorrow," He responds and smiles reassuringly, "In the meantime the files should be safe enough on the floor. I promise I will not cause any more…explosions in Applied Sciences."

I laugh helplessly. Getting to my feet, I pick out the BASE jumping sheets and hand them to him.

"And…ignore the stuff about Europe's best BASE jumping sites. I've decided you're not that bad of a guy to have around," I add.

"Trying to get rid of me?" He asks, feigning hurt.

"Keep up the explosions and I could change my mind," I say.

Neither of us are able to maintain a straight face.

"Lyn," Chad's voice pulls me away from Wayne. The gangly, be speckled executive stands awkwardly near my desk, watching us with surprise.

"Are you ready to go?" Chad asks me.

"Is it that late?" I ask, "I mean, of course, just let me get my stuff."

It's an uncomfortable moment when Chad, Wayne, and I share an elevator.

"Bruce Wayne, this is Chad," I say, "Chad…well…you know Bruce Wayne."

"I remember you from the meeting I interrupted," Wayne tells Chad.

"Oh?…oh," Chad says, "You work in Applied Sciences now, right?"

Wayne nods.

Suddenly his frequent visits are explained.

"Are you going to Mr. Earle's dinner party tonight?" I ask, desperate for conversation.

"Regrettably, no," he says, "Prior engagements."

"Regrettably?" I ask, "I'll gladly swap with whatever you're going to."

"I don't think you'd enjoy it," He says with a secretive look.

"Business?" Chad asks.

"Of a sort," Wayne agrees.

The awkward silence sets in again. Thankfully the elevator pings open and we part ways.

"Bruce Wayne! Lyn, do you know his reputation?" Chad asks when we are out of hearing distance.

"No," I reply, "And he was only helping me put back files he knocked over." I emphasize the fact that the destruction of order was Wayne's fault.

Chad sighs, "Let's go, we have to stop by your house for you to change right?"

"Right."

We get into his car and drive off in silence.

An hour later, me dressed appropriately in a long skirt and sweater, Chad and I stand before the door to Bill and Nancy Earle's mansion. The butler takes our coats and leads us into the sitting room. Being promptly on time unlike us, the four other couples invited are already there. Since all the seats have been taken, Chad and I stand uneasily next to the floor lamp, feeling like pieces of furniture ourselves.

"Chad, Lyn, nice to see you as always!" Bill says a little too loudly. At least he remembered my name.

We nod, and grin, and pretend we are glad to be there. The topic of conversation immediately pounces on us as the newest, most interesting people in the room.

"So how long have you two been dating now, six years?" Melissa, wife of Dave asks.

"Only f…four really," Chad stutters. I can feel my face going red. It's starting again.

"Four is a long time!" Eric, an up and coming executive and Earle's pet, comments.

"Have you been thinking about taking the next step?" Christine, ever the gossip, asks.

"Oh yes! It would be wonderful to have a wedding to look forward too!" Melissa adds.

Chad, next to me, is becoming increasingly uncomfortable and withdrawn. He begins to fiddle with the fringe on the lamp.

"Once you hit thirty, you know it's getting time to settle down," Bill advises, "I married Nancy when I was twenty-seven." He smiles and pats her hand.

"You're, what, thirty four now, Lyn?" Nancy asks.

Now I know I'm beet red.

"Twenty-nine," I reply. Ten years younger than you, Nancy Earle.

"Oh, sorry, I loose track of these things," she titters.

"But you must be nearing at least forty now , Chad," Dave says.

"Nearly," Chad admits. He's thirty-five.

Sick of their gossip and teasing, I take matters into my own hands.

"Actually we just got engaged!" I announce, plastering a big fake smile on my face and slipping my arm around Chad's (while conveniently stopping him from tearing apart the lamp). Chad turns to look at me as if I've just let off a bomb in front of him. The room is quiet for a few seconds as I try to communicate silently with my new fiancé, saying 'play along'.

He winces and then pretends to grin, "That's right," he says weakly.

We'll never make it as a couple.

"Wonderful," says Bill, looking a little confused.

"Shall we move to the dining room now? I believe everything is set," Nancy asks a little too brightly. The oddities, Chad and Lyn, are swiftly and thankfully forgotten.

Chad holds me back while the others head in, chatting about some new victim of gossip.

"What was that about?" he asks in a whisper.

"I had to do something, the lamp was dying!" I protest softly, trying to make a joke of the situation.

A puzzled look flicks across his face, then he sees the destroyed lamp fringe and he sighs.

"Don't worry," I say nonchalantly, "We can have a spectacular breakup in a couple months. It'll give them something even better to gossip about. And they'll hate me forever, and I'll never receive a dinner invitation ever again. It's a win-win situation."

"You're acting immature," Chad looks very disappointed in me, and retreats to the dining room without another word. Realizing that I might have unintentionally hurt my best friend, I follow him in, feeling a little chastised. During dinner I'm unusually quiet, my snide remarks kept to a minimum. Chad, meanwhile, seems to have grown somewhat of a backbone. He laughs and talks as if nothing happened. I'm the one picking forlornly at the unidentifiable food with whatever utensil is nearest. The rest of the party doesn't realize anything is amiss and carries on like before.

"Lyn, did the food disagree with you?" Nancy asks, her face full of concern.

"Not at all," I lie smoothly, "The duck was delicious! I just ate a large lunch." Then, with a loud rumbling, my traitorous stomach betrays me.

"Now that you mention it though, I am feeling a bit queasy," I say and start to get up.

"Don't worry. I'll show you to the bathroom," Nancy says, smiling at me and taking my arm.

"Thanks," I say. Inside I'm wishing she'd let me get lost in the mansion so I could make my escape. Instead she clings to my arm the entire way as if I was an invalid. I let myself into the bathroom and decide to wait for her to leave.

"Lyn?"

She's not leaving.

"Lyn, truly I only wanted to speak to you privately," she says from behind the door.

I pull out my pocket sketchbook (full sized got left in the car) from my purse and sit on the toilet, ready for a 'therapy' session. Maybe orange hoodie guy with a baseball cap was onto something.

"It's about you," she says.

My head jerks up from my sketch of the bathroom potpourri in surprise. "Oh?" I ask.

"Are you sure you're ready to marry yet? I'm just saying, you're haven't hit your peak yet in your career, and marrying Chad would be tantamount to throwing it all away. Before I married Earle, I had dreams of leading the fast paced life of a business woman myself."

I'm in Archives, where does this woman think I have to go?

"I speak from experience here," a bitter tone creeps into her voice, "I gave up my career for ten years married to Bill and look where I ended up. Without kids, even."

I knew the 'it's about you' was too good to be true. Potpourri drawing resumes.

"Lyn are you alright? You're awfully quiet," Nancy asks.

"I'm fine," I say, "Feeling much better." I pull open the door and slip my arm around hers "You don't need to worry about me, Nancy."

"You're a sweet girl, Lyn. And you have so much potential. A college education and an acceptance to medical school. Don't let all that work go to waste."

I had no idea she knew so much about me.

"I think it's a little too late," I say, smiling wryly, "Besides, they'd be lost without me down in archives."

She laughs and we walk, arm in arm, back to the dining room. A week ago, if anyone had told me I could be friends with Nancy Earle I would have laughed them out of Gotham. I'm not so sure now.

Before we go in I tell her, "If you ever need to talk, feel free to call me. I don't get out much, but I'm a good listener."

"I hear you're a good artist too," She responds, "Someday I'll need portraits painted of Bill and I for posterity's sake. You do take commissions, don't you?"

"You'll be the first," I respond, grinning like an idiot.

"That would be splendid," She says.

We enter the dining room giggling like school girls. The plates have been cleared and everyone looks ready to retreat to the drawing room.

"Chad and I should go," I say, "I'm afraid I am just too tired. It was a hard day of filing."

We walk to the door and when the valet leaves to get the car Chad confronts me about my time spent with Nancy.

"You two looked like best friends, what happened?" He asks.

"She doesn't approve of my marrying," I say, "And she wants to commission a portrait."

"That's great!" Chad exclaims, "Well…except for the marriage part."

"Yeah, it seems I have at least one person who will be on my side when we split up. Looks like I won't be sliding out of dinner invitations quite so easily."

Chad smiles, but the valet arrives with the car and we lapse into comfortable silence. On the way to my house we fall back on our usual topic of conversation: history. However, before we can reach the house my empty stomach makes another protest.

"Was that you?" Chad asks incredulously.

"I forgot," I said, "I'm starving. Lunch consisted of a salad with Mary."

"Do you have food in your apartment?" Chad asks.

"Of course," I protest, "But nonetheless, if you could drop me off at Sam's, I'd be much obliged."

"Sam's?" Chad asks, "Now? It's not safe!"

"It's Sam and Lawrence," I argue, "I'm safer there than at home."

Sam and Lawrence were Italian immigrants who came to Gotham and established a popular, underground restaurant. The place was known for the best spaghetti in town. In addition to being the favored dining spot of notorious mob boss Carmine 'The Roman' Falcone.

"Th…those brothers cater to thugs and mobsters…literally," Chad argues.

"Which is why I never eat inside," I explain patiently, "They reserve special tables in back for favored guests or guests who can't afford to be seen with types like Falcone."

I befriended the brothers over college breaks and when I moved back to Gotham City. Each brother lived with their families in the apartments below me. Sam, a large, intimidating man, was the reason I felt safe at night despite living in the narrows. Now in his sixties, Sam is the closest thing to a father I have left. Both brothers are extraordinarily gifted at cooking. When I first moved into my flat, I found myself welcomed by a heaping dish of lasagna. I fell so much in love with Sam's lasagna that I've gone downstairs to his family's apartment every Thursday since. We have an arrangement in which I watch the kids Cecil and Larry on the weekends in exchange for a couple free dinners. Sam is largely the reason why I've been able to stay in the narrows. When he discovered who I was, and what it meant, he tried to get me to move to a better part of Gotham. 'You're dad's famous for the good he's done, girl. There's not a family who he helped who wouldn't help you in return,' Sam said. When he realized I wasn't giving in, he promised to look after me. Thanks to Sam's reputation as the best cook in the narrows, and maybe all of Gotham, Falcone has an interest in keeping him alive and happy. And thanks to some casual suggestions of my closeness to Sam's family, I've been pretty much left alone. Of course, my undervalued, uninteresting job helps keep me fairly anonymous too.

"Here we are," Chad announced, slowing the car to a stop.

"Thanks," I said, "I hope I didn't embarrass you too horribly tonight."

Chad shakes his head sadly.

"Take care of yourself, Lyn," He says wearily.

I give him a soft smile and head around to the back of Sam's. As always the kitchen door is wide open. Bright, warm light and the usual din of family cooking drifts outside. I plop into the nearest open seat and wait for one of the brothers to notice they have an extra guest. In the corner of my eye I spot a dark shadow moving in the alley across the way. I cautiously get up and start backing towards the door when I recognize a patch of orange hood. Curiosity sets in and I make my way towards the alley. There, crammed in between the restaurant and another building, stands a tall dark stranger whom I've met before.

"Mysterious orange hoodie guy, we have to stop meeting like this!" I exclaim loudly, so as not to surprise him. He tenses and looks ready to dart away but he has no where to go. The alley is blocked by the restaurant's large trash bin. He remains facing the opposite direction.

"Are you shy as well as rude?" I ask, leaning against the dirty brick with my arms crossed. I have no intention of leaving until I find out who this guy is. I've had enough mysteries for a lifetime.

"Go away," he says gruffly.

"Or just rude," I say, "If that was meant to sound intimidating, it didn't."

"I suppose you think you're clever," he says, turning slowly around to reveal a face that has recently become very familiar.

"Bruce Wayne?" I scoff in disbelief.

He raises his eyebrows at me, "What are you doing in the narrows?" he sounds exasperated.

"Me? I live here!" I hiss in defense, "What are you doing here?" What little information I know clicks into place; fake companies, bizarre and deadly hobbies, "You're not working for Falcone are you?"

He makes a face, "Falcone? No!" He seems offended that I could even ask such a thing.

"Then what are you doing hiding in Sam's alley?" I ask.

"Sam?" he asks in return.

"A friend, he owns the place, don't change the subject."

"I'm not working for Falcone. I can't tell you everything, but I'm getting information for a friend in the DA."

"Information the police couldn't get?" I ask skeptically.

"No," he says, his tone making it clear this is his final word on the matter.

"Isn't it dangerous? Seems out of character for a billionaire to risk his own skin just to get information," I comment.

"I like to do things personally," he says.

A pause. Somehow, quiet moments always come up in my conversations with this guy.

"Did you get what you needed?" I ask hesitantly.

"I believe so," he responds.

"Well, since you're here then, let me treat you to the best Italian food you've ever had." I offer, gesturing towards Sam's back door.

"I can't stay," he says brusquely.

"I insist," I say, leading the way back to the outdoor tables. He follows, looking unconvinced.

"I highly recommend the fettuccine with marinara," I suggest, handing him the menu.

"And if you're worried about being recognized, take these," I say, passing over my large sunglasses.

He takes the sunglasses with a sardonic look and puts them on.

I snicker.

"What?" he asks.

"You look like a bug," I tell him.

He's about to pull the sunglasses off when Sam appears in the doorway. Wayne hastily pushes the glasses back up his nose.

"Lyn!" Sam cries in his great, booming voice. He tromps over and scoops me into a hug. "Hungry?" He asks.

"Famished" I say, smiling widely. Behind Sam, a waiter comes outside with a red-checked table cloth and candle. He whisks it across the table, throws down silverware, lights the candles, and smiles at me.

"The usual, Miss Pearl?" he asks.

"Of course," I say, "And Larry here will have the same." I wink at Wayne. I can feel his glare behind the sunglasses.

"Of course," the waiter says. He and Sam go back inside.

"Larry?" Wayne asks in a low voice.

"You're welcome," I say smugly, leaning back in my chair, "I assume you want to remain anonymous. You're not a people person are you?"

"You have no idea," he says.

Another pause.

"Romantic setting," he comments, grinning.

I look around at the grimy back alley, "It could use some flowers," I counter.

He nods, "Flowers would add color."

I pull out my sketchbook.

"You've got to be kidding me," Wayne says, groaning, "Do you ever stop?"

"Since I know who you are now, it hardly matters," I reply.

He reaches across the table and pulls it out of my hands.

"Hey!" I protest, sitting up to grab it. He holds a hand out to stop me and begins leafing through the pages with the other.

"Interesting," he says, deep in concentration over my sketchbook.

"No one has ever looked through it before," I say aggressively, hinting at him to give it back.

Wayne ignores me completely.

"How long have you spent on this?" He asks.

"I began my first sketchbook when I moved here six years ago. Mary was my first entry while waiting for my interview at Wayne Enterprises."

"Mary?"

"Wayne Tower receptionist. Perhaps you should learn the names of people you see every day."

He looks up at me for a minute, then back at the book.

"I know your name, Lyn," he says.

I'm not quite sure how to respond.

"I see Bruce Wayne isn't in here," he comments.

"I only draw people who are interesting. Orange hoodie guy is a million times more exciting than Bruce Wayne."

He looks up at me again, this time to smile. He closes the book and hands it back to me.

"Bruce Wayne probably wouldn't deign to talk to you anyway," he says in an arrogant manner.

"I'm sure he wouldn't," I agree.

We're saved from another lull in conversation by Sam who has returned with two heaping plates of spaghetti. I dig into mine like I haven't eaten in a week. Though, to be fair, it has been over 12 hours. I stab another forkful of pasta, deftly twist it around my fork, and am about to take a huge bite when I realize Wayne is watching me with an amused look on his face. I pause, sit straighter in my chair, hold the fork in such a delicate manner that would make Nancy proud, and eat the tiniest bit of pasta. I set the still full fork down and daintily dab at my mouth with my napkin (which I had pulled from the table where it had been resting improperly).

"I apologize if my manners are ruining your enjoyment of your meal," I say, imitating Nancy's voice.

"I've just never seen a woman eat that way," he says with a lopsided smile.

"You must not know many women, then," I tease.

"No, they probably save those manners for when they are not in my presence," he adds.

"Heedless of committing a social error by eating heartily in front of…Larry," I say pointedly, "I will continue doing so because not one hour ago I was sitting at Earle's dining table staring at the smallest portion of the most disgusting entree I could ever imagine." Then I proceed to pick up my fork and eat my spaghetti.

Wayne, meanwhile, is laughing at me.

"Might I suggest you do the same?" I ask, mouth full.

He grins at me and tries a bite of spaghetti.

"This is really good," he says, sounding amazed.

"Told you," I say.

A half hour later, full to the brim with spaghetti, and feeling like rolling home, Wayne and I leave Sam's. I'm burdened down with a take home tray full of the night's leftovers for later. Sam's policy is that one can never have too much food.

"I'll admit it. The upper side of Gotham lost when Sam decided to set up shop in the narrows," Wayne says as he walks.

"He didn't 'decide' to start his restaurant anywhere. Nor does he 'decide' to remain here," I argue, "Falcone paid for Sam's move from Italy. Sam's in Falcone's debt. If he tried to establish an upscale business in the rich part of town, he'd be in trouble."

"So he is a Falcone thug," Wayne says darkly.

"Yes and no. He and Lawrence have their own leverage. Falcone is addicted to their Eggplant Caponata. No one makes it quite like Sam." I say in the brothers' defense.

"A formidable cook then," Wayne concedes.

"And a formidable enemy," I add, "He helps me out sometimes."

Wayne looks at me oddly, "Why do you stay in the narrows?" he asks.

"Why do you disguise yourself in orange hoods and baseball caps to go sneaking around at night?"

"It's not the same. If it's a question of money…"

"It is not a question of money, Mr. Wayne," I say resolutely.

Silence.

"It's this house," I confide, stopping in front of the elegant, roaring twenties style mansion, long beyond repair.

"My father grew up here, and he remained here even after all his neighbors fled to safer parts. He refused to give in to the mob and relinquish his childhood home. He wanted to remember his roots, he used to say. I grew up here too. At least, I did until everything got so bad that he sent me away to boarding school," I explain.

"Boarding school?"

"In California. I despised the whole experience."

"What made you move back?"

I shrug, "I just did. Maybe I simply…wanted to see this house again. Of course, by then it had been converted to apartments. I live on the top floor now."

"Will you be safe walking up there alone?" Wayne asks.

I laugh, "Unless you're offering to accompany me home every night after work, Mr. Wayne…I'll be just as safe as ever."

He nods, "I will see you tomorrow then."

"I look forward to being educated in a new, death defying hobby," I reply.

He smiles.

"Goodnight," he says.

"Will you be okay walking home alone?" I call after him, grinning.

"I think I'll manage," He calls back.

"Can you explain what you were doing back there?" I ask in one last ditch attempt to solve more of the mysteries surrounding orange hoodie guy.

"I can't. Not right now."

"Someday?"

"I promise you," he says, dead serious, "once its over, I'll explain, everything." His voice contains a hint of determination and perseverance in face of a long night ahead.

"I get the feeling that'll be a long time in coming. Whatever it is." I respond softly.

I watch after him until he turns the corner, then head up to my own room for the night, thinking about his vow.

But I don't know if I can wait that long.


	4. Week 1:Wednesday

4: Wednesday

The next day I spend the entire morning waiting. With every little sound, my head involuntarily jerks up to glance at the elevator. The elevator never opens. On my desk is a list of companies he still hasn't picked up, as well as a newly made list of extreme sports. While I work I try to puzzle out the character of Bruce Wayne. Cops don't even go into the narrows alone after dark, yet Wayne seemed to believe he was perfectly safe, naturally blending in. His comment about doing things personally fit with my assessment of him. In the past week I've seen Wayne in the Archives more often than I've seen my official boss, Earle, in years. However, personally requesting information is a far cry different from personally visiting Falcone's hideout. Is Bruce Wayne the reckless, carefree, pleasure seeking idiot he is famed to be, or something more? Either way, he intrigues me.

I wait until 12:00 to finally admit to myself he isn't coming. I throw my bag across my shoulder, restack the newspapers, and head upstairs for lunch. Mary calls out to me to wait for her, but I'm through with waiting. I casually wave, pretend not to hear, and walk out the door. Feeling oddly dejected, and angry at myself for feeling dejected, I stroll down four blocks to Solomon Wayne Library and push my way through the crowds into the building. I nod in greeting to the nameless homeless man we all call Bob who frequents the library. Bob is lounging in one of the many plush chairs with a stack of twenty non-fiction books piled next to him. It's often speculated whether or not Bob can actually read. I've had the opportunity to find out that not only can he read, his intelligence is a good deal higher than people expect.

I make my way towards the librarian Rosemary Berry's desk. Situated in the center of the children's book section, stands sweet Miss Berry's desk, the one bright spot in an otherwise dark, gothic looking library. In front of the desk hangs a sign identifying her as "Rose the Li-berry-an" in cheerful, bubble letters. Rose is a self-proclaimed spinster who found her one true love in books.

"Lyn, good to see you," she looks up from _'I Can Fly'_ and smiles at me. I sink into a chair next to her desk and pull out my lunch bag.

"My day has been nothing but disappointments," I tell her.

"Well, I must have somehow known you were coming today, because look what I brought for lunch," She says kindly. She reaches into her desk and reveals a bar of chocolate in addition to the rest of her lunch.

I laugh and pull my strawberry yogurt from my own lunch bag. "Swap?" I ask, grinning.

It's tradition, and it brings back memories from elementary school. It's also a bit childish perhaps, but that's how Rose is. She brings my favorite forbidden food and I bring hers. As I eat I sketch the kids roaming around the children's section. Every once in a while one of them will run up to Rose, begging her to read or define a difficult word for them. With every request, Rose leans down to their level and obliges by reading a couple pages, adding in voice effects. The children's section is never a quiet place.

"Anything you want to talk about?" Rose asks. She knows that some days I'll come to have a conversation, but other days I'm just there to be comforted by the happy atmosphere.

"Not unless you have something to share," I reply. She shakes her head.

We sit in silence, listening to the kids.

"Did you hear about what happened to Eleanor?" Rose questions after a few minutes.

"No! Was it something bad?" I ask, worried. Eleanor, an elderly woman with a rather stubborn attitude, owns my favorite used book shop and lives in an apartment above the shop.

"It could have been," Rose says, "Her priceless collection of first editions was almost stolen last night. At around midnight Eleanor heard breaking glass and, of course being Eleanor, she crept downstairs with her knitting needle to stop the intruder."

I nodded, grimacing. Trust Eleanor to try to stop a burglar with her knitting.

"She claims she only got halfway down the stairs when she realized the burglars were fighting each other," Rose continues, "Apparently two of them were being badly beaten by the third guy. She says the third guy looked like the leader due to his fancy black mask and cape. However, she also says in her hurry she had forgotten her glasses on her bed stand. Which might explain for the fact that, after beating up the two little guys, the leader flew out of the window. The next morning Eleanor found the burglars on the roof, tied to her chimney.

"Wow," is my only response, "He…flew?"

"Or jumped, depending on if you believe Eleanor. She's a dear, but sometimes I think her memory is going."

"Actually flying -or jumping- could make sense." I tell her about masked guy on Mary's fire escape.

"Does that mean he's working for the police?" Rose wonders.

"Or is it even the same guy?" I add, "Your guess is as good as mine. I still haven't read anything about any of this in the papers. Are they trying to cover it up?"

Rose shrugs and turns to help a little girl find a book.

I resolve to start investigating this masked character.

"Have you heard anything else like this?" I ask Rose when she returns.

"No," Rose says, looking thoughtful, "But as long as Eleanor is safe, I can't really see any reason to be concerned with it. If there's some guy out there randomly protecting innocent old ladies, I'm all for it."

I nod in agreement.

"Have you seen Chad today?" Rose asks, suddenly changing subject, "He usually stops by every morning on his way to work but today I missed him."

I look down guiltily, "Chad may be in a bad mood today," I explain, "The dinner last night didn't go well."

Rose raises an eyebrow, "By your shamed look, I assume you had something to do with that?"

"I may have," I reply, evading the question.

"Even so, he has no call to be mad at me. Tell him I expect to see him this afternoon or I'll report him missing."

"If I see him, I'll let him know."

"Thanks," Rose says. She turns back to her cataloging, "It's 1:00, by the way. And whatever you did, Lyn, it can't be bad enough to ruin a friendship over."

"I don't know," I say. I'd been refusing to allow myself to analyze last nights events all day. I don't think I can face the embarrassment.

I leave the children's section, wave to Bob, and return to Wayne Tower. The reports are sitting patiently on my desk, reminding me of my promise to Mary. I decide not to say anything, since nothing directly connects the masked guy to Eleanor's hero. Time ticks by slowly. I find myself wishing to be somewhere, anywhere else. I try to remind myself how much I enjoy the archives by picking a random letter combination and rereading the contents of the entire bin. Nevertheless, by the end of the day, I'm exhausted and ready to go home.

"Did Mr. Wayne come in today?" Mr. Fox asks as he passes by my desk.

"I'm afraid not, sir," I reply, trying not to let disappointment creep into my voice. Fox nods -dare I say knowingly?- and continues on.

After he leaves I shut down the computers and the main bank of lights. I pause after hearing a familiar ring coming from my bag. I fish around for my cell phone and flip it open. The number is not one I recognize.

"Lynnet Pearl," I answer, "Who is calling?"

"Lyn, I need help! He has Larry and Cecil," A panicked voice cries over the phone. I recognize the caller as Joan, wife of Lawrence.

"Calm down, Joan," I say, though my own voice sounds weak, "Who does and where?"

"Falcone," Joan cries breathlessly "He said he was taking the kids to see their dad. I don't know what's going on. I can't call the police."

"What do you want me to do?" I ask, feeling helpless. What use am I against Carmine Falcone?

"Falcone says he has a deal to make with you. He wouldn't tell me anything more, except to call you and make sure you stopped by the restaurant."

"I'll head there right now," I say, running to the elevator.

"What does he want?"

"I don't know," I admit, my voice is definitely shaking now.

I take the train to the narrows. My dramatic sensibilities try to tell me I'm orchestrating my own death scene, but common sense tells me as long as I comply with whatever Falcone wants, he has no reason to kill me. All thoughts of courageously standing up to the mob boss flee my head, probably never to return. I wonder how I could have been so foolhardy as to think I had my father's strength.

I get off the train and rush blindly into Sam's restaurant. The place is deserted except for a group of figures crowded around Falcone's table. Two thugs I didn't realize were behind me latch onto my arms and pull me forward. I go calmly, noting that Sam and Lawrence are standing in front of the kitchen door. The men push me into the seat across from Falcone where Cecil and Larry sit on either side of him. He settles his hands on the table and leans forward.

"We've left you alone for a long time, kid," he says, "Now it's your turn to repay us."

"With what?" I ask simply.

He laughs derisively, "So eager to help, are we?"

I don't respond. My heart is pounding so hard I worry that if I talk, I'll faint.

"I need information," he says, direct and to the point, "And I hear you're good at getting it."

"What information?" I ask, feigning confusion, "I work in the archives of Wayne Enterprises. The only thing down there is business reports and lots of numbers."

"Exactly what I need," he says, "Not Wayne's information. Don't worry, this little job won't get you in any trouble. I just need you to look up a…business partner's past for me."

Despite my decision to comply with their wishes, I'm on the verge of saying no. Falcone senses my hesitation.

"I don't think you understand what I'm asking," Falcone says, "All you have to do is search those files of yours for anything pertaining to one Jonathan Crane, and I'll leave you alone. Not many people with your legacy dare to live in an area like this one. Now…your trust fund is too small to tempt someone like me…but others…it just might."

I don't care about my father's money, but the mob's methods of getting the money, most likely involving my imminent demise, do concern me. Falcone lets his threat sink in.

"Why me?" I ask, taking a chance he might answer.

"You've been getting a little too…comfortable here, Miss Pearl," Falcone replies, looking concerned.

"Lyn…" Lawrence starts forward, but is stopped by a threatening hand from one of Falcone's thugs.

"Stay out of this," I say harshly and fix Falcone with a glare, "If I get you your information, will you leave me, and Lawrence's family, alone?"

"Of course!" Falcone shrugs, as if he's the most agreeable man in the room. "However, none of my…usual contacts could find anything. So, you may have to work a little harder to get it. But that shouldn't be any problem for a girl like you."

"I'll have whatever I can find by Friday," I confirm.

"Tomorrow," he corrects, "Bring it here by lunchtime. No more questions."

I get up, ready to be accosted by the guards and thrown out of the restaurant. Instead, Falcone permits me to leave on my own two feet, a gesture I'm fairly certain was mocking me. I stumble to my apartment in a daze. When I arrive home, I only manage to make it halfway up the steps before collapsing into Joan's arms, sobbing.

"Thank you," she whispers, "Thank you." We are both aware that by having Cecil and Larry with him, I wasn't the only person Falcone was threatening. Mr. Pearl may have been able to endure breaking apart a family, but I couldn't. What little bravery I thought I inherited has disappeared.

Sam and Lawrence arrive with the kids after the restaurant closes for the day and find me sitting in Lawrence's apartment. I'm calmly sketching Joan as we chat about the weather, politics, or any subject other than the one that scares us. Unsurprisingly, Lawrence is the brother who gets angry.

"You wont be helping that man," he says, arms around his children protectively, "You'll be leaving, tonight."

I look up at him, with no words to say. I look to Sam and realize that he, at least, understands.

"I have no choice," I argue, "I wont let him hurt your family over this. All he wants is some information, anyway"

Lawrence lets out a growl of frustration and he paces the room.

"You don't get it, do you?" he asks, "You've been officially noticed now." His hand slams down on the tile counter, and he turns his face away. Joan gets up to comfort her husband.

"But, it's just this once…" I begin to say.

"It's never just this once," Sam explains softly, "You could view the Crane assignment as a test. A way to see if you'll do what you're told. He probably has the correct information already. He only needs to see that you can match it. And in connecting you to our family, your results mean danger for all of us. I think my brother's protests are largely spoken out of concern for our family."

"Then I'll do whatever he needs for now," I say finally, "And give him no excuse to bother us."

Sam is quiet. Lawrence, I realize, is crying.

"We all knew it was only a matter of time before we fell out of favor with Falcone, Lyn," Sam states in a whisper.

I can't take it. I did what I could and no one could ask for more. Turning my back on the emotional scene, I leave the room and head upstairs. I unlock the door to my studio apartment, which used to be my beloved attic, and fall into my bed. I calmly listen to my breathing and consider the idea that sacrificing oneself is far easier than having to watch the sacrifice of others.


	5. Week 1:Thursday

5: Thursday

Thursday morning I wake up with puffy eyes and the worst headache imaginable. I dunk my head in the sink before I even consider getting ready. The water feels soothing, but does nothing for the redness. I stare at my bloated face and despair about going to work. Strangely the blue of my eyes appears brighter than ever, perhaps because of the contrast. I slip on my glasses, hoping to disguise the red-eyed-monster look. Unsurprisingly the attempt fails.

I head straight to work. Nerves prevent me from pulling out my sketchbook on the train. My plan consists of typing Jonathan Crane into the search engine and wishing for the computer to do all the work for me. I doubt if I'll be able to pour my heart into research for a man like Falcone.

Once inside Wayne Tower I keep my head down and attach myself to the side of a random business man in order to sneak past Mary. She's bent over some papers and thankfully doesn't notice me. The business man however, an elderly guy, jerks his arm away from me the minute we get into the elevator. He then pretends I don't exist. He looks furious when he realizes the elevator is going downwards. I hastily step out and into Archives. Heaven forbid I take one second away from such a busy person.

Turning on the computer, I type in 'Jonathan Crane'. Almost immediately a screen pops up listing the files he's mentioned in. I pull up his birth certificate and tag it. In addition I find a couple college degrees in psychology and law. Apparently he had a teaching certificate and was a professor at Gotham University. I click over to an article published three years ago. The reporter describes Crane as an insane teacher who shot a student to prove a point about fear. The student injured in the accident turns out to be Jessica, Earle's secretary. I jot down her name to remind me to find her before lunch.

Printing out the list of files, I weave in and out of the cabinets searching for helpful information. The most I can ascertain is that after shooting a student, Professor Crane was fired and moved to Arkham Asylum. A year ago he was released, only to return as head of the Asylum. My focus transfers from his time at the university to his current work at Arkham. As I search I keep in mind ideas of possible motives Crane might have had for working with Falcone. Halfway through the morning I uncover records on monthly specialized drug shipments that began a couple weeks into Crane's appointment as head. I print out the known Carmine Falcone drug shipments and cross reference the two. A pattern emerges: Falcone and Crane were shipping at similar times. Every Crane shipment was recorded one to three days after a Falcone shipment. Finally I was getting somewhere. The usual rush of excitement overcomes me and I attack the research with gusto. I'm so excited I fail to notice when the doorman bell on my front desk rings once politely. The tinkling ring sounds five or six times before my concentration is broken and I drag myself back to my desk.

Bruce Wayne casually stands in front of me.

"We missed you yesterday," I comment coolly.

"I know," he says, nodding, "Sorry."

Something in his tone endears him to me.

"Normally I wouldn't care, but you not showing up throws into question the validity of the other promise. We archivists don't like to be kept in the dark," I tease and gesture at the wall-to-wall ceiling lights.

He glances up then says in a no-nonsense tone, "Even lazy billionaires have to work sometimes."

I try to smile but the effort is too much.

"I need your help," he starts to say, "I told you about my DA friend who is going after Falcone. Well, she needs some leverage on him and Judge Faden. And I was wondering if you could get it." He looks at me half-expectantly and half-pleadingly.

"I seem to be doing a lot of favors for people lately," I say bitterly, "But I'll get you the information. Judge Faden, at least, is easy."

"What else are you researching?"

"Oh," I sigh looking down at my papers, "Stuff on Jonathan Crane. For another…acquaintance."

Wayne looks concerned.

"Who is Jonathan Crane?" he questions.

"Some renegade professor turned psychologist. Sounds like he's either brilliant, or insane."

"Sometimes it's the same thing."

"With this guy, it's not. Some of the things he's done can be viewed as just plain stupid or part of a genius scheme. From what I can see, he comes closer to just plain stupid."

I habitually glance at the time in anticipation of when I'll be handing this information to Falcone. Before I had been merely reassuring myself I had plenty of time. Now, I panic.

"It's 11:00, I need to go," I say to Wayne, "Can you pick up the facts on Faden after work?" I rush to get up and throw the papers in my bag.

"Of course," Wayne says, a little flustered at my insistence on leaving. He sets a page down on my desk and follows me to the elevator.

"No visit to Mr. Fox today?" I ask on our way to the first floor.

"No," Wayne says indifferently, "Storm chasing requires a storm to go chasing after. And according to the weather report, the usual cloudy days of Gotham won't be changing anytime soon."

"Storm chasing?" I say, raising an eyebrow, "Definitely sounds extreme."

He smiles down at me.

When I don't get out of the elevator behind him, he looks momentarily confused.

"I've got someone to see today," I try to explain and hit the 'close door' button rather prematurely. I get a brief picture of Chad running for the elevator door, hand stretched out and an 'I'm late' expression of horror on his face, before the elevator doors slam shut.

Then carefree music irritates me to the brink of insanity until the elevator finally stops on the 42nd floor.

"Jessica, can I talk to you?" I ask, walking into the richly decorated office, "It's about some research I'm doing."

"Sure, Lyn," Jessica says, "What do you need to know?"

"How much do you know about Jonathan Crane?" I ask, lowering myself into the seat across from her.

"The professor?" Jessica scoffs, "He's completely insane. I switched from psychology to business two years into my degree because of Crane."

"I guessed as much," I agreed, "But what else? Were the classes he taught…unusual in any way?"

She laughs scornfully, "Unusual is an understatement. He terrifies and intimidates all the students. Sometimes he would act stupid, forcing us to answer obvious questions. The classes he gave destroyed any self confidence one had. His manipulative mind games…they were horrible. I hated Jonathan Crane. He knew it too. That's why he chose me for the demonstration."

"The demonstration involved…what exactly?"

"It was supposed to teach us about fear. No one understood it really. He pointed a gun to my head, said some stuff about me not flinching because I knew he wouldn't pull the trigger, and then shot me in the leg. To this day I don't know if he had planned on actually hitting me, or if it was chance."

"Anything else you think might be worthwhile to know about him. For example, his relatively recent position at Arkham?"

"Arkham is certainly a better match for him than Gotham University. He was always trying to get students to participate in these shady experiments. The few people who agreed to do it for the money he was offering were never the same again."

"How so?"

"They were afraid of everything. And they wouldn't go near a weapon ever again. One of my friends who did the experiments still can't go within a few blocks of a police station without hyperventilating."

"Wow," I said, "I don't have any idea if this information will be quite what…I was looking for but…"

Jessica suspects something, "Who are you getting this for anyway?" she asks.

"Bruce Wayne," I say the first name that comes to mind, and regret it at once.

"Bruce Wayne?" her eye brows shoot up in disbelief, "You can't be serious."

"It's true. Why do you find that odd?"

Jessica laughs, "Everyone knows he's nothing but a narcissistic playboy with too much money on his hands. Even down in Archives, you must have seen him enough times to discover that for yourself."

"A narcissistic playboy…" I trail off in bewilderment. Did we meet the same Bruce Wayne? He may be a trifle arrogant, but with his sense of humor half the time he seems to be mocking his overconfident self.

"Yeah. He hits on anything that moves. I guess he is smooth and good looking enough to get away with it. He certainly had me going for a while with the whole 'take a break from all that work and I'll show you some golf pointers' routine. Of course everything he showed me was wrong. I should know, being captain of Gotham University's golf team for three years." She snorts with laughter.

"I'll, uh, remember not to bring up golf then," I say, "Anyway, I really should let you get back to your work."

A second later I'm gone.

Waiting for the elevator and then the train to the narrows is agonizing. Unable to concentrate enough to draw, I find myself with too much time for thinking. Crane scares me. And Falcone scares me even more with his interest in Crane. I shove the extra notes I took during the interview with Jessica into my sketchbook. Falcone can threaten to kill me all he wants; he will not find out what Crane is capable of from me. I'll give him the bare minimum.

Speaking of Jessica, my mind momentarily wanders to the subject of the paradoxical Bruce Wayne. Either the playboy image was an act, or I was so incredibly unattractive to him as to be unworthy of his attentions. I'm uncertain which explanation I prefer. On one hand, if the self-centered billionaire act was dropped only around me, I'd be flattered. And it would confirm my nagging feeling that I've been gradually befriending Wayne. On the other hand, if he was just treating me like a guy friend, well, I'm familiar with that role, and it just doesn't seem to fit Bruce Wayne.

Boarding the train, I clear my head of thoughts to prepare myself for meeting Falcone. I have prepared a list of main points I will use to distract him from Crane's actions at the university. I'll direct Falcone's attention to the odd sources of Crane's drugs as well as Crane's controversial tests on Arkham Asylum inmates. The train pulls to a stop and I run down the stairs to Sam's restaurant. The clock on the wall reads 12:00. I'm right on time.

The minute I step into the room, two of Falcone's thugs take a firm grip on my arms. I walk stiffly towards the table, trying to keep in step with the guards while not appearing to be dragged. Nonetheless, my pride is wounded as the thugs gracelessly shove me into the seat. I scramble to sit upright, straightening papers into a neat pile. My sketchbook falls out of my bag, scattering the notes on Jessica's conversation. I hastily shove the notes in my bag, but at a gesture from Falcone, one of his thugs picks up my book.

"What's this?" Falcone asks, looking suspicious.

"Nothing but drawings," I reply, "A personal journal of sorts."

He nods at the thug who proceeds to flip through it. An involuntary jerk catches me as I watch him paw through my precious drawings. Take away anything, kill me if necessary, but don't hurt my drawings. Please don't hurt my one worthwhile contribution to this world.

Of course, I say nothing.

Falcone considers my slight reaction, but thinks nothing of it. He jerks his head again and the sketchbook is thrust back into my arms. I allow myself a small feeling of relief.

"The information?" Falcone prompts.

"Here," I say, handing him a stack of files.

"And?" he says without glancing down.

"And, Crane is the head of Arkham Asylum. You can see by the source, the drugs he orders are…questionable. Even more so than usual. It is suspected he uses them on the patients at Arkham. And he works for someone else. Someone who is supplying these drugs and a monthly income. Otherwise Arkham would have gone bankrupt ages ago."

Falcone nods, "Good work," he says, "You can go." He pockets the papers.

I'm shocked at being let off that easily. I cautiously stand up, turn my back on Falcone, and walk away. On my way out of the restaurant I spot Judge Faden getting out of a car and heading into the building. Remembering Wayne's request I surreptitiously snap a few photos with my cell phone, then hasten back to the train.

Once back at Wayne Tower, I pick up the paper Wayne left on my desk. Still feeling a little deadened by my encounter with Falcone, I sit down and look over his requests.

_Drug list_

_ Incriminating photographs (check, thank you cell phone cameras)_

_ Cargo Manifests of last shipments_

Easy enough to find these in the Archives. I merely needed to dig around a bit. I start by getting dirt on Judge Faden, including newspaper articles, and suspicious deals with Falcone. Falcone himself is my next target. After unearthing Crane's hidden shipping information, I'm able to easily find old invoices that list all the cargo on Falcone's ships. I'm proudly stapling the entire packet together when the elevator opens for the second time that day.

Chad rushes out, panic written across his face.

"Lyn, Wayne Enterprises is in trouble!" Chad exclaims.

"What are you talking about?" I ask in concern. All memory of the awkward dinner disappears.

"What do you know about prototype 47B 1ME?"

"Nothing; should I?" I reply and begin to type the number into my computer, "The computer doesn't appear to know anything about it either." I add as a blank page flashes onto the screen.

"Oh god," Chad sighs, adjusting his glasses and looking lost.

"Where did you hear about this prototype?" I ask, "It could be labeled under something different."

"That's the only name I know of," Chad says, "I have no idea what it is, except that it's missing."

"Because of something you did?"

"No. No, it wasn't anyone's fault. But it…" Chad stops as if finding it hard to get the words out, "It's slightly illegal."

"Slightly illegal?" I cry, "How can anything be slightly illegal?"

"The prototype was a government request, but technically Wayne Enterprises should not be building it. If the public found out…"

"A government request," I say, considering, "I might know where the information could be. Stay here, I'll be back in a minute."

I jog along a memorized pattern of file cabinets until I reach a seemingly plain looking wall panel. Unbeknownst to even Earle, the Archives contains secrets partial only to the current living Mr. Wayne himself and the company's current archivist. The previous man who worked down here told me before he left that it was my responsibility to educate Bruce Wayne about these rooms when he returned. I'd always assumed Bruce Wayne had disappeared for good. Now, after being reminded of the hidden rooms by Chad's plea, I wondered when I should get around to telling Wayne.

I touch the edge of a panel slightly, letting it read my fingerprints, and the door glides open. Flicking the lights on, I type "47B 1ME" in the computer labeled "Government Contacts". The screen pops up with a location for the file. Running my hands along the cabinets, I come to the correct bin, only to find out that the information on this particular prototype is in Applied Sciences. With a grunt of frustration, I slam the bin shut, close the door to the hidden archive, and retrace my steps to Chad.

"No luck," I say, "47B 1ME exists, but it's in Applied Sciences. I'll take you to Mr. Fox."

He follows me to the elevator.

"Good luck," I whisper.

He nods, an apprehensive expression never leaving his face.

I wait at the elevator, restlessly pulling out random files and reading. One perk to being in Archives: boredom doesn't exist. Re-reading and memorizing files can always be useful. Half an hour, and six file bins later, Chad comes back from Applied Sciences.

"Well?" I ask as we walk back to the front of Archives.

"The prototype is a microwave emitter. A weapon. For desert warfare. It vaporizes all concentrated water within a certain radius." A crestfallen look crosses his face, "I knew we should never have let Earle lead Wayne Enterprises in this direction. Fredericks was right, Thomas Wayne would not want this for his company."

"What will happen?" I ask, almost afraid of the answer.

"I don't know," Chad admits.

"Have you told anyone?"

"No, the coast guard reported the missing crate directly to me. Lyn, I can't tell Earle. What will he say? What are we going to do? For that matter, what can we do? Other than hope." He starts to leave.

I watch him go, thinking now would not be the appropriate time to tell him of my own hopeless situation.

"Oh, Lyn?" He asks, "There's another dinner tomorrow night. To re-introduce the great Bruce Wayne into our social circle." by the sarcastic infliction on 'Bruce Wayne' it's obvious Chad share's Jessica's opinion of Wayne's character.

"I'll go," I say, knowing Chad will need a friend now more than ever, "But I have to admit I'm surprised you're asking me. After what happened at Earle's and all." I smile impishly.

"In view of our engagement, I feel rather obliged to invite you."

"Hey, at least I didn't tell them we eloped over the weekend."

He laughs sadly, "See you tomorrow night then. The dinner doesn't start until 8:00, so I'll pick you up at your place."

I nod, "Bye."

Chad departs and I'm left to my rebellious thoughts. I refuse to worry about the missing prototype. Earle will have to deal with that problem. One person, though, I can't get out of my mind. At 6:00 I shut everything down, Wayne having disappointed me yet again. Before I leave I pack the 'leverage' for Wayne into my bag, not wanting to leave it out in the open overnight.

On the train I have no energy to sketch. I don't even notice when someone gently shoves his way to sit down next to me.

"No drawing today, this is a first," the person next to me comments.

I look up in surprise to find a figure in an orange hood smiling at me

"What are you doing…?" I start to ask.

"You told me I could escort you home if I would do so every day after work. I'm upholding that offer."

I laugh madly, "You are insane. Not to mention completely insufferable."

"Do you have the leverage I requested?"

"The truth comes out! You're only following me home because I have something you need!"

"It's a plus."

I shake my head at him in exasperation, but hand over the documents. He slips them inside his jacket to be scrutinized later.

"Can I ask why you were researching Crane?" Wayne questions.

"Yes, actually," I say, pulling out a photo of Crane, "Last Monday I saw Jonathan Crane lurking near my apartment. I tried to talk to him, but like some other people I know, he flatly refused. Glared daggers at me, really. I've been trying to find out what a respected Doctor of psychology was doing in the narrows."

It was an alibi I had come up with when I finally connected the handsome Jonathan Crane with crazy-eyes guy. Hopefully Wayne would fall for it, and not ask too many questions. I had no intention of telling him about Falcone. I knew that if I did, Wayne's good opinion of me would be shattered forever.

"So what did you discover?"

"Other than that he's crazier than you? Not much."

He watches me searchingly for a while, as if he subliminally knows something is amiss.

"What?" I ask, trying to sound untroubled.

"Nothing," he says.

"In that case," I say, "Take these too." I give him the list of fake companies and extreme sports.

He raises his eyebrows at the papers, "I'd forgotten about those," he comments, "Wonderful!"

"Still can't tell me what you're using them for, huh?"

"I'm buying stocks through different funds and brokerages. So I'll be the majority shareholder of Wayne Enterprises. Earle doesn't know," he confesses quietly.

"Brilliant!" I exclaim, "Going public, but you'll still be the owner. Brilliant." Again, I find myself baffled by Wayne's character.

"Yeah, well, it was partially Alfred's idea."

"Alfred?"

"My butler," he answers as if every multi-billion dollar company owner would ask his butler for financial advice.

I simply can't stop smiling. Jessica was wrong about this guy.

"You're more intelligent than you look, Wayne," I say.

"Glad to hear it."

The train arrives at my stop and he follows me out. I'm wondering if he will go so far as to follow me into my apartment when he suddenly stops in front of the stoop.

He shuffles anxiously, then announces, "The real reason I wanted to see you home safe today…is because you worried me this morning."

His words halt me in my step. We stand in silence for a minute, neither one willing to be the first to confide.

"Is everything all right?" He asks probingly.

I hesitate before answering, "Of course."

His eyes pierce me, but I don't give in. After a couple minutes he nods, and strolls off.

I let out the breath I didn't realize I was holding in. I admonish myself for feeling guilty. Wayne has his secrets, I have mine. I don't owe him anything.

Later, in the wee hours of the morning, I wake up in a sweat from a nightmare about Falcone. I hobble over to my father's wingback chair and curl up in it for comfort. As I stare out the window, still shaking, I suddenly see a strange glow reflected on one of Gotham's twin towers. The bright light outlines a rough, triangular expanse of black. Five minutes later, the black falls away, and the penetrating white spotlight flickers off.


	6. Week 1:Friday

6: Friday

On the 5:30 train the next day, I run into Bob. A homeless wanderer on a quest for true knowledge, Bob is privy to the inner workings of Gotham city, which only a privileged few see. His favorite bragging rights consist of being the first to know of Bruce Wayne's disappearance, and of being the sole owner to an accurate map of the narrows. This being so, I knew I could count on him to inform me of the truth behind the mysterious glow last night.

"It was a bat. A creature of the night. It attacked and vanquished its prey…" Bob rambles at me.

"A bat can't shine light on buildings," I argue. When talking with Bob, interrupting is necessary to get a word in edgewise.

"The bat isn't a bat. The bat is a symbol. A symbol of hope. A symbol of…"

"Symbols don't shine lights either, Bob," I say, "Tell it from the beginning."

"I was at the docks. Some men were unloading crates into a truck. Then the bat came…"

"Wait," I say calmly, "No more bats. Don't interpret what you saw. Tell me what truly happened."

"An invisible black shadow descended from the sky and attacked and vanquished…."

This conversation was going no where.

"Then he told me I had a nice coat," Bob states and straightens his coat proudly.

Or maybe it was.

"Hold on, who is 'he'?" I ask, excitedly.

"He is the bat. The bat is the symbol. The symbol will be feared by…"

"So you saw a guy, probably all in black, with the drug dealers?"

"He fought the drug dealers. The bat flew so fast as to be a blur. The bat…"

"Ok, the guy was dressed as a bat. With a cape maybe? And fought the drug dealers to…accomplish what?"

"The detective cannot stop the bat. The black knight has no liege. The bat does not divide lines between police and mob. The bat divides lines between good and evil. The detective…"

"A cop was involved?" I ask, "Who? Did you see a face?"

"The roman hired the cop but the cop can't stop the bat. The bat considers the roman and the cop equals. The bat apprehends the roman…"

"Falcone was physically at the scene?" Falcone is usually not one to take risks.

"The bat pulled the roman out of his car through the roof. The bat and the roman flew to the top of the detective's house. The bat affixes the roman to the spotlight for his crimes. The bat shines a light over Gotham. A light that will illuminate the corrupt of Gotham's streets. The bat is no longer a symbol of dark but a symbol of light. The bat…"

The reality of Bob's words begins to sink in. Falcone is caught. Caught by a man, possibly the same man from Mary's fire escape and Eleanor's bookshop. Bat or not, with Falcone behind bars, I'm free. Dizzying relief surges through me and I begin to crack up. My joyous laughter echoes throughout the train, and I'm thankful Bob and I are alone. The laughter is so uproarious, even Bob stops ranting to stare at me.

"Falcone…caught," I breathe, "Bob, you just made my day."

And whoever this bat boy is, I seriously owe him one.

"By the way, that honestly is a nice coat," I add, grinning.

"Thanks," Bob says.

"So, what have you been reading lately?" I dare to ask the question most people avoid like the plague while interacting with Bob. I figure Bob deserves a good listener after giving me such valuable information. For the remaining ten minute ride to work Bob gives me an in-depth, yet choppy description of _Bats: Biology and Behaviour. _Apparently 'the bat' inspired Bob to visit the library at 4:00 in the morning yesterday. Librarians have come to consider Bob an inevitable force of nature. They have changed the locks twice, posted armed guards in front of the doors at all hours of the night, and still manage to encounter Bob asleep over a new book when coming into work the next morning.

I say goodbye to Bob at Wayne tower, intruding on his tirade about the actual harmlessness of real bats. My steps are light and I'm beaming radiantly. Mary is the first to notice.

"Lyn, you look lively this morning!" she observes.

"I have some new gossip for you," I say. For once, I find myself enjoying the prospect of gossip.

"Ooooh!" Mary squeals, "I hope it involves fire escape guy!"

"I suspect so," I say, "But Bob wasn't exactly clear."

"Bob? He knows everything! What did he say?"

"Did you see the strange light on one of Gotham's towers last night?"

"No. Why?"

"Apparently, the light is a signal from some guy dressing up in all black and fighting crime bosses. He launched an attack against Falcone last night and caught him red-handed!"

Mary gasps, "I knew he was good! Oh, if only he could fall into my fire escape again!" She practically swoons.

"Bob has officially labeled the masked crusader as 'the bat'. Rumor says the man can fly and turn invisible," I add.

"That's probably Bob just being Bob, you know how he loves embellishing everything. Not even super-humanly hot fire escape guy can fly," Mary reasons.

I shrug, unwilling to dismiss Bob's observations so easily.

"He definitely jumped onto my window. If it was flying, the leap would have been more graceful," Mary reasons.

"Perhaps he was in his learning stages at that time," I counter.

"Or perhaps he uses a pinch of fairy dust and thinks happy 'kicking-crime-lords'-butts' thoughts before throwing himself off buildings," Mary teases.

"Or perhaps you need more imagination. Don't destroy my flying fantasies," I reply, "And get back to work. Enough gossip distraction."

Mary rolls her eyes at me and returns to her planners. Meanwhile, I float on air down to Archives. Nothing, not even the maddening Bruce Wayne, can ruin my day. I settle down to my computer and set up new files to sort all the exciting new information. At around 7:00, Mr. Fox enters, bearing my daily newspapers.

"You're early today Miss Pearl," he comments.

"Events are finally starting to pick up," I say, beaming, "No more boring company reports. Now I get to archive files on vigilante Batboys."

"I believe I must be missing something here," he says with a twinkle in his eye.

"I've been talking to Bob," I explain.

"Ah," he says, nodding knowingly, "But that still doesn't clarify the vigilante part, Miss Pearl."

I smile from ear to ear, "Some guy, not a cop, apprehended Falcone last night. I don't know much else, but Bob witnessed the entire scene."

"And Bob believed this person was a…bat?" Mr. Fox looks skeptical.

"He was dressed in all black and a cape. It's a logical conclusion, Mr. Fox," I say gravely.

He chuckles.

"I wonder…" he thinks out loud, "Well, that certainly sounds interesting Miss Pearl. If you see anything in the news, please pass it on to me."

"Of course," I confirm, "Talk to you later, Mr. Fox."

"Of course," he says, and turns down an isle towards his department.

I snap open the newspapers and scan the headlines. Surprisingly, the _Gotham Daily_ is missing from my pile. All the others fail to mention anything about Batboy. I sigh, but fully trust Bob's word. If he says 'the roman' was captured by 'the bat', then it happened.

At 11:00, Mary comes down with the reports. She tosses the _Gotham Daily _on my desk, grinning triumphantly.

"They held the presses until the afternoon just to get that bit of scoop out," She announces.

I stare in amazement at the front page. "_Bat Serves up Crime Boss_" it fairly screams.

"I love Bob!" I exclaim. I grab the paper and start scanning.

Mary giggles, "It seems his bat theory is catching."

"Carmine Falcone was found tied to the spotlight on top of MCU!" I read, "The district attorney plans to place charges against Falcone for his drug shipments. Falcone currently resides in County Jail."

"Mary this is wonderful!" I say, unable to contain my enthusiasm.

"Indeed," she says, "Though I'm more concerned about how I'm going to meet this bat guy. I suppose I'll have to get involved in the drug shipping. Lucky Falcone."

I ignore her and read the rest of the article, "It says the police also caught most of the thugs with Falcone, in addition to a corrupt detective. But of course, the detective was released by commissioner Loeb. Oh well, at least they tried to get him." My face darkens slightly at the thought of commissioner Loeb.

"No matter what you say, Lyn, I simply won't believe commissioner Loeb is part of the corruption in the police," Mary says, bringing up an age-old disagreement between the two of us.

"You don't have access to all the files I do, Mary." I respond, still focused on the paper.

"Instead of spending so much time with your conspiracies, why not go out on a date?" Mary suggests.

I falter at the change of subject. "I'm going out with Chad tonight," I protest.

"That doesn't count," she dismisses my proof of a social life, "You know Chad isn't interested in you."

I shift uncomfortably, "Going out with friends still counts as socializing," I argue, "At least I don't daydream about men in capes."

"That's not a daydream, that's destiny," she claims haughtily and heads off to lunch.

Chuckling, I stare down at the newspaper in my hands and any momentary gloom dissipates into pure bliss. I engrain the image of Carmine Falcone trapped on a spotlight, like a fly pinned to a web, permanently in my mind, then I pack up for lunch. In my rush to get to work, I hadn't bothered to make a sandwich for myself. So, I decide to go out for lunch.

Walking along the downtown streets, I keep an eye out for anyone interesting. It felt good to be back in routine. The last time I obtained a new entry for my sketchbook was a little under a week ago. But after twenty minutes of wandering with no luck, my stomach begins to make its usual protests. As a compromise I finally settle on a small falafel stand on the corner.

"One please," I request, handing over some cash.

As the man behind the stand makes the falafel, I reach into my bag for my copy of _Gotham Daily_. I pretend to be absorbed in the paper.

"Have you read the headlines today?" I ask, conversationally, gesturing to my newspaper.

"Sure," he says, "About some bat, right?"

"Yeah, they say he caught the mob boss, Falcone," I add.

"Completely useless, if you ask me," he comments.

"Why do you say that?"

"Falcone will only be transferred to Arkham Asylum and then be released again. The bat guy is wasting his time."

"But surely the judge will realize Falcone isn't insane," I say.

"Doesn't matter," he says, handing me my falafel, "The only people who have any influence are the corrupt officials. Masked men taking the laws into their own hands - they wont have any long term effects. The bat will be nothing but a joke this time tomorrow."

"A joke who can beat up tens of Falcone's thugs single-handedly," I point out, "And the mask protects him from repercussions. He can do things the police would never dare." Like declare war on Falcone.

"So he got lucky once. It wont happen again," the man says cynically, "Besides, although he may have gotten the top guy, that wont effect the majority. Average people like you and me; we'll still be in danger. Give me a crime fighter who will take the time to save a nameless person getting mugged, and then I'll call him a hero."

"I agree," I say, "But maybe Gotham just needs to give him a chance."

Then, pulling out my sketchbook I add, "Not to change the subject, but do you mind if I draw your portrait?"

He laughs, "What are you? Some kind of researcher?"

"Archivist" I respond, settling onto an overturned crate.

Soon the Falafel vendor was describing to me the funny habits of his kids, the trials of making a living in Gotham, and his passion for cooking. Someday, he says wistfully, he'll be a famous chef instead of selling falafel on the street. I listen intently, taking notes in my book, and begin to realize how much Gotham's citizens need a true hero.

Returning to the seclusion of the archives, I keep myself busy filing and hypothesizing about Batboy. Late in the day, the elevator doors slide open, a sight I'm becoming accustomed to, and out steps a very tired looking Bruce Wayne.

"Thank you for the information," he says seriously, "With Falcone caught, my DA friend needs it now more than ever."

"Isn't it wonderful?" I gush.

"I suppose the data was extraordinarily informative…" Wayne says slowly.

"I meant Falcone's imprisonment!" I exclaim, laughing.

"Yes, of course," he says with a bemused expression, "Does his incarceration affect you that much?"

"You have no idea," I say without thinking. Quickly backtracking, I add, "Living in the narrows, one feels the influence of Falcone tremendously."

"Ah," he responds, nodding.

"Batboy is Gotham's hero," I state, my mouth getting away from me again.

"Batboy?" he tilts his head down and arches an eyebrow at me.

"A friend of mine claims the man who fought Falcone was wearing a cape and bat ears."

"But Batboy?" he insists indignantly, "Why not Batman? Or simply The Bat?"

"The Bat would make a great villain name. But 'Batboy' has a real friendly sound to it."

"Friendly?" Wayne says, appalled, "Lyn, he beat up twelve thugs!"

"Exactly," I say, "He's friendly to the average, law-abiding citizen. Why do you care what I name the guy? It's not like it'll be printed anywhere but my files."

Wayne does a double take.

"Let me get this straight," he says, "The crime fighter who delivered Carmine Falcone to justice when the cops couldn't touch him will forever go down in Wayne Enterprises' archives known as…Batboy?" He sounds personally offended.

"What's wrong with that? 'Batboy' has a nice ring to it. You know, alliteration and all that."

"But Batboy!"

"You seem unusually concerned," I interrupt, "Do you think this bat character has a fragile ego which would be shattered by attaching a word as wimpy as 'boy' to the end of his pseudonym?"

"Yes, I do!" he says adamantly, "No one takes a crime fighting 'boy' seriously. I'm protecting the man's reputation."

"You must harbor sympathy for arrogant men with low self-esteem then," I tease, "Anyway, it's too late to change the label." I hand over a newly printed sheet for him to read. He surprises me by studying the page intently. I hadn't expected him to actually care.

"Do people really feel this way?" he asks, gesturing to the article titled 'Public Opinion'.

"It's an ongoing questionnaire of mine. I've only talked to one person, so currently the findings can't claim to represent a majority. But it truly reflects one falafel vendor's opinions," I explain.

He's quiet for a minute. Then he sets the page down on the desk and says, "Batman wont forget the average person."

The finality of his tone keeps me from playing the devil's advocate and asking if Batboy could be in multiple places at once. Crime is so prevalent in Gotham, it would be improbable to expect one man to save the entire city.

"Why so sure?" I ask softly.

"I guess I do empathize with him," he says darkly. His out of character manner surprises me. Another side of Bruce Wayne emerging, I suppose.

"Empathize, not sympathize, huh?" I ask, "I guess that rules you out as contender for the role of Batboy." I pretend to check his name off a list. He just regards me with a cold stare.

We lapse into a tense silence.

"I should go. I have a dinner to attend tonight," he says gruffly, looking less than excited about the prospect. It dawns on me that yet again he didn't mention one word of going to the Applied Sciences department where he supposedly works.

He came to see me. To thank me.

"Bruce, wait!" I call out to his retreating back.

He stops and turns around. For one minute I take in his exhausted stance and weary eyes.

"Smile," I say simply.

He screws up his face at me like I'm crazy, but a grin begins to form at the corners of his mouth.

"Just one, genuine, expression of happiness," I say, "Please."

A second later his startled look is replaced with a wide smile. I smile back, my good humor returning.

"Thanks," I say.

He nods, still grinning, and leaves.

A minute later the door opens again and Bruce, in a significantly better mood, strides out.

"I realized something in the elevator," he announces, a smug grin on his face.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"You called me by my first name."

"Your point?"

"And you enjoy my visits."  
"And?"

"You don't find me insufferable."

"Is that what's been bothering you? You can't be serious."

"Not bothering…more like nagging."

"Can't stand the idea of someone not enjoying your company?"

"I suspected you were lying…"

"Oh, so you just can't stand to be wrong? Typical."

"And you proved me correct."

That shuts me up.

"Do you act this contrary around everyone?" His tone has me opening my mouth to argue until I notice the smile, and the teasing glint in his eye.

"I am not contrary!" I argue.

He laughs.

"And what about you?," I question, "You act like you have a multiple personality disorder."

It's his turn to go quiet.

"I'm sorry," I say after a few moments, "I only meant that one minute you act like a normal guy, then the next you're doing extreme sports or acting spy for mysterious DA friends."

"Usually people call that a multi-faceted personality. It's a good thing, Lyn, not a disorder," Bruce says defensively.

"Well, Mr. Multi-faceted personality, they're predicting a storm tonight. Will you be chasing it or hiding beneath the covers?" I counter.

"Chasing."

"That fits," I say, studying him, "The Bruce I know would go running after storms."

He smiles roguishly, "But I'll probably be too busy playing polo."

"Polo!" I exclaim, "Suddenly this new version of Bruce is diving under the bed, cowering."

"Polo is a rough sport," Bruce argues.

"For soft billionaires perhaps."

"The number of injuries would shock you," he says sagely.

"Honestly, what made you decide to take up Polo?" I ask, my curiosity killing me.

"Alfred talked me into it," he explains.

"And you let him?" I ask in disbelief.

"It's better than golf. And certainly more intimidating than that one sport on your list. Wingsuit flying?" Bruce makes a face of disgust.

"What part didn't appeal to you? It combines BASE-jumping with parachuting. I thought you'd leap at the opportunity." I say, laughing over my bad pun.

He snorts, "The required 'squirrel suit' seemed a bit much."

"I thought it looked cute," I say.

"You would," he says, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like 'batboy' under his breath.

"Don't bring that up again," I say teasingly. However, out of curiosity, I can't help asking, "Seriously, Bruce, what do you think of the bat man?"

Bruce's smile disappears but his thoughtful eyes remain kind.

"He's trying to be a symbol of hope, an example inspiring people to end corruption. Even if they must start by fixing themselves."

My heart skips a beat. His description hits a little too close to home for comfort. I force the thought down. I don't need to concern myself with Falcone anymore.

"You think he's doing Gotham a service then?" I ask

"I do," he answers.

"Me too," I add.

This time the silence that settles over us is comfortable.

He sighs and glances at his watch. "Now I have to leave. Even for me, 6:30 is late to get ready for a dinner."

"6:30? It can't be!" I cry, "My train…"

"I'll give you a ride," Bruce says, "Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure? Chad might still be here, I could call him…" I say as I'm punching Chad's number into my phone. The phone rings a couple times then goes to his answering machine. "Or not."

I look up at Bruce and say stuffily, " I would greatly appreciate a ride, Mr. Wayne."

"And the formalities resume," Bruce says dryly.

"Bruce, I need a ride," I say bluntly, shooting a sarcastic look in his direction.

He smiles, "Happy to oblige."

The priceless expression on Mary's face as Bruce and I stroll out of Wayne Tower and get into a car chauffeured by an elderly man is worth whatever harassment I may have to endure the next day.

"Alfred, this is Lyn," Bruce introduces, "Lyn, my butler Alfred."

"Pleasure to meet you Miss…" Alfred prompts.

"Pearl," I say, "Nice to meet you as well. You must be the polo fan."

Alfred glances back, confused.

Bruce hastily clears his throat, "I was telling Lyn about how you talked me into joining a Polo club."

"Ah," Alfred says succinctly, nodding, "Might I ask where we will be headed?"

Oh, right. Home. How embarrassing.

"Lyn missed her train to the narrows. We're giving her a ride," Bruce explains, then turns to me for directions.

I draw a blank. Seeing as Chad has the route memorized, I've never driven myself home. Despite knowing how to drive, I've had no need or wish for a car since I got back to Gotham. I quickly form a map of Gotham in my mind by piecing together different archive files. I imagine myself traveling through the streets and eventually formulate the most direct route from Wayne Tower to the narrows. Proudly, I announce that I know the way and give the first set of directions to Alfred.

Unfortunately for me, pedestrians can ignore one way streets. Cars, however, can't. The second time I told Alfred to turn down the wrong way on a street, Bruce looked amused but chose to say nothing. By the sixth or seventh time, Alfred was adding his own commentary to my directions, while Bruce listened to the two of us, laughing.

"I think if you take a left here…" I would say.

And Alfred would respond, "I could Miss Pearl, but the oncoming truck may have other ideas."

Eventually I found the measure of Alfred's character; a humble yet pompous Butler mixed with a hidden impudence that came out in the form of jokes. It took us a half an hour to find my house's street. As I step out of the car, I apologize to Bruce and Alfred.

"I'm sorry for causing so much trouble. I'm afraid I've made us both late."

"I'm always fashionably late," Bruce says in his arrogant, self-mocking voice.

I laugh, "Goodbye Alfred. Glad to meet you."

Alfred looks kindly at me, "Likewise Miss. Pearl. I am afraid I cannot say the same about driving you, however."

I nod, blushing. Turning back to Bruce I say, "I'll see you tomorrow at work, then."

"I certainly hope not," the arrogant voice continues.

"Why…" I'm speechless.

"Tomorrow's Saturday, Lyn," he adds and rolls up the window.

I wince and trudge up the stairs to my apartment. Once inside I become a flurry of activity. The reality of Chad picking me up in half-an-hour finally sets in and I dash about, taking a shower and drying my hair. I also perform a hasty clean up of the apartment. For the first time in a week, all my dirty clothes find their way into the proper hamper. My life may be organized to the second, but my room certainly is not. After the floor is cleared, I drag out my old school trunk. Packed in the bottom are three of the most precious dresses in the world. I will always be grateful to my grandmother for suggesting I bring the dresses with me to school instead of leaving them at home, despite all insistence that there will be no need for formal attire during classes. She saved them from being confiscated along with all the other family heirlooms.

I gingerly lift the top dress, used for fancy dinners and parties, out. Slipping the green fabric over my head, I study myself in the mirror. The dresses belonged to my mother, but were made by my grandmother. Near mint condition, a gauzy overdress hangs gracefully over silk lining. I appear to be a floating leaf. Or perhaps a mossy twig, given my lack of figure. The wire rimmed glasses only make things worse. I deliberate between going half blind, or looking like an owl. After deciding the ability to see outweighs beauty, I opt for the glasses. To mitigate the owlish look I leave my hair mostly down for once while pulling the top into a half ponytail.

Right on time, the doorbell rings and I let Chad in.

"You look nice," he says pleasantly.

"No need to lie," I say matter-of-factly, "Let's get this over with."

During the ride to the hotel I hesitantly ask about the missing prototype.

"Did you tell Earle about the 47B 1ME? Maybe he can take precautions against anything happening." I say.

"I did," Chad says miserably, "He didn't seem to understand the monstrosity of the situation. But he told me he would take responsibility. So, at least I don't have to deal with it anymore."

"That's great! Now lets just hope it doesn't get Earle in trouble either. The whole thing can be forgotten."

"But that's the thing…" Chad says, "I don't think it should be forgotten. That prototype is dangerous."

"Sometimes forgetting is the easiest solution," I say, thinking of Falcone.

"The easiest solution often causes the most harm," Chad replies.

"Speaking of causing harm, have you heard about Batboy?" I ask, swiftly changing the subject.

"You mean the insane vigilante who caught Falcone?"

"Yeah, that guy," I say dourly.

"Don't tell me you approve of him?"

"Of course I do! He took out a thorn in my side."

"While breaking a couple laws here and there," Chad says.

I'm about to disagree when Chad cuts me off.

"Lyn, I don't have the strength to argue with you tonight. Please." He says. His eyes are pleading, his shoulders sagging. I feel a slight twinge of guilt, this prototype business is becoming quite the burden.

"Okay," I say quietly, taking his hand.

We walk into the hotel side by side, my hand still wrapped in his. Chad leads me to the table and offers me a seat next to Nancy Earle. I observe Bill Earle to be unusually subdued tonight. He must be more affected by the disappearance of one of Wayne Enterprise's weapons than Chad knew. Even Nancy remains quiet as I slide into my seat. She nods a hello, examines my dress, sighs, and leans in close.

"Lyn, dear, since I feel we've gotten to know one another lately…as a friend…I advise you to buy at least one other dress," she whispers.

"It was my mother's," I explain. Then in a louder voice I ask, "When will I be having the privilege of painting you and your husband's portraits?"

"Oh soon!" Nancy says, her eyes momentarily lighting up, "I've been eagerly anticipating our portrait session! I'm going through Bill's and my schedule right now and it appears that next weekend may be the perfect time to start."

"Wonderful!" I say, genuinely pleased.

We idly chat about renaissance artists Nancy admires and would like me to emulate. As I talk I keep one eye on the door, willing Bruce to magically appear. When he does, my heart lifts at the prospect of finally talking to someone not moping over disappearing emitters. I'm about to wave him over when he stoops to help a woman out of his car. Everything around me freezes, locking my eyes on the two - no three! - people entering the hotel. Bruce Wayne swaggers inside, a fake, supercilious smirk plastered across his face and two gorgeous young women draped over his arms.

A narcissistic playboy indeed.

I drag my eyes away from the revolting sight, and desperately try to concentrate on Nancy's conversation. A conversation immediately broken by the attention-seeking arrival of tonight's honored guest. Nancy's manner abruptly switches from friendly to obsequious as she fawns over Bruce. For his part, Bruce completely fails to notice me. Apparently, like every other higher-up employee in Wayne Enterprises, I become invisible to him outside the workplace.

Oblivious to everything around him, Bruce makes small talk with the executives, looking increasingly like an actor on a stage as the night goes on. I'm unable to do anything but stare in numb disbelief. Chad notices my stoic silence. He glances at Bruce Wayne, and probably surmises the cause of my reticence, but fails to bring me out of it.

Until a comment about Batboy catches my attention.

"Bruce, help me out here," Dave says.

Bruce's attention averts back to the table and he makes a face.

"Well, a guy dresses up like a bat…clearly has issues," he mocks.

The comment stings, going against everything Bruce and I had discussed earlier. My mouth hangs open in shock. Yet, for the first time this evening, Bruce appears seriously interested in the discussion.

During the next lull, I speak up.

"I think Batman is a symbol of hope. An example to inspire people to end the corruption, even if it means starting with themselves," I challenge, stealing Bruce's own words. I stare straight at him, daring him to disagree.

He leans into his chair, taken aback, and finally truly looks at me. Recognition flickers in his eyes, then his face goes blank. Our silent staring contest lasts for a few seconds, but seems like hours. A waiter interrupts our battle by questioning Bruce's guests sudden desire to swim in the hotel fountain.

Bruce saunters across the floor to join his guests in the water, leaving me without an explanation. Anger, and frustration fume inside me. I want to shake Bruce Wayne by the shoulders and demand the truth. I take a deep breath, steel myself against letting Bruce Wayne get to me ever again, and turn calmly to Chad.

"So, what library research shall we do tomorrow?" I ask, forcing a smile.

He looks relieved at my change in mood and we proceed to debate World War Two documentaries. The others at the table glances knowingly at the two history buffs, and promptly ignore us. By the end of the dinner, Bruce returns, mopping up extra water with a towel. His lovely companions left him to be bundled into robes. I deliberately ignore him, focusing solely on Chad. In response, Bruce changes tactics and strikes up a conversation with Chad instead.

"So, you two are dating," he says offhandedly.

"They're engaged!" Melissa corrects, grinning over sharing this bit of gossip.

Chad nods, smiling awkwardly, and takes my hand. I watch Bruce's reaction, trying to quell the traitorous side of me screaming inside that I don't want Bruce to know of my 'engagement'.

"Congratulations," Bruce says to Chad and I. He flashes an unconcerned smile in my direction.

The phony smile covers up whatever real emotion Bruce might be feeling. If he felt anything at all. Myself, well, if I had my way I'd sink through a hole in the ground and disappear. Thankfully Bruce draws the conversation away from us as his two women sit down again, fully clothed.

"Can we go?" I whisper pleadingly to Chad.

"Of course," he says. He gets up, helps me out of my chair, and places a protective hand around my back. Bruce glances up as we leave and I imagine his eyes lingering on me until we're out the door. I throw one last look back, and we make eye contact for a mere moment.

The car ride home is quiet.

"You were right," I admit glumly, "He's an arrogant jerk not worth my time."

"If you're talking about Bruce Wayne…" Chad sighs, "I told you so."

"Let's not talk about him," I say resignedly, "Ever again."

"Agreed," Chad says, "Unless you want me to go beat him up for you. I certainly hope not, since my chances of surviving such an encounter are probably zero."

I laugh helplessly, "You are worth ten Bruce Wayne any day."

"Mentally maybe. Physically, I'm not so sure," Chad says, smiling, "Seriously, don't ask me to act out the gentleman protecting his fiancée's honor."

"I'll let you off the hook this one time." I reassure him.

He pulls to a stop in front of my house.

"Lyn, you can always stay at my place. I have a guest room. And now that we're engaged, no one would think anything of it." Chad suggests.

"You know why I stay here," I remind him.

"Living in his house wont bring your father back," Chad says gently, "Don't you think its time you've given up on this place already?"

I shake my head sadly, "Giving up would mean admitting defeat. As long as I can eke out an existence here, I will subtly stand up to Falcone. He got my father, he can get me, but my persistence proves not everyone crumples under the mob's thumb."

I get out of the car and hazily walk up the steps to my room. I change into more comfortable clothes and then throw myself on my bed with my sketchbook. I draw for hours, letting my feelings escape onto the page. Bats in different stages of flight wing across the white surface. Interspersed between them are depictions of a man I've never seen, only dreamt of. Batboy, a hero. Batboy would never pretend to find the moronic conversation of two beauties intriguing. He'd tell them to shut up and then dash off to save another helpless old lady crossing the street.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I vaguely wonder if he's chasing the night's storm. I startle myself by realizing I'm unsure of to whom I'm referring - Batboy or Bruce. A crash on top of the roof jars my thoughts. My heart races. Scrambling to my feet, I heft my gigantic, intimidating flashlight into my hands. Any intruder will find being knocked unconscious by this metal bat an unpleasant experience. I cautiously approach the window, noticing a black scrap of cloth fluttering in the wind and rain. Bracing myself, I shove the window open and peer out onto the fire escape. The black cloth trails up to the roof. I clamber out and rearm myself with the flashlight. Dragging myself up the ladder, I come face to face with a dark mass. It takes me a minute to recognize the twitching sea of black as a man.

A man with pointy black ears. Batboy.

Without another thought I leap onto the top of the roof and feel my way towards the man. He thrashes around and almost hits me, but I carefully set my flashlight down and slowly continue.

"I'm a friend," I yell through the sound of thunder, "Stay calm, I can help."

At the sound of my voice, he stills. However, his head keeps jerking around and he mumbles unintelligible sentences about poison. I jump lightly to the other side of him and push him to the edge of the roof. His weight is an agonizing strain on my weak muscles. Fortunately, probably thanks to all the heavy file lifting, I'm able to get him to the edge and down onto the first platform. Groaning with the effort, I gently lift him to the platform in front of my window, and promise myself to visit Wayne Tower's weight lifting room more often. By some miraculous burst of strength, I haul the man through my window. I slam the window down, cutting off the torrent of rain, and turn to my patient. He's temporarily spread out across the floor, soaking the carpet. Repressing the surging panic - 'what was I thinking bringing an anonymous vigilante into my room?' - my training kicks in and everything begins to move like clockwork. I grab towels and my father's medicine kit. After drying him off, I lug him onto my bed, hoping to make the man more comfortable. I'm doubtful of his comfort though, due to the rather solid looking suit he's wearing.

He moans and shakes from side to side without seeing. I check for any rips or tears in his suit, and not seeing any obvious wounds, I reluctantly conclude his reactions must be a result of poison. I dig through the medicine kit and pull out a bottle of Activated Charcoal. Thank goodness for my father's tendency to be over prepared. The water and powder mix is supposed to absorb the poison, and can act as an antidote or a temporary way of stopping the poison from spreading. It seems to work, and Batboy calms down enough to fall into a fitful state of half sleep. But I can't help worry that the Activated Charcoal is only a short-lived cure.

Exhaustion hits me along with my apprehensions about bringing a strange man - even if he is Batboy - into my home. I stagger backward into my father's chair. My cell phone rests innocently on the side table next to me. The rational part of me insists on calling the cops to come deal with this big problem wrapped in black Kevlar. I pick up the phone to dial, but something stops me. Looking up at the figure on my bed, I wonder why he wears a mask. If I send him to a hospital, the doctors will take off his disguise. What dangerous truth hides behind the bat cowl? Who could be harmed if his identity becomes public?

My hand pauses over the second '1'. There must be a reason for the mask. Whether the disguise saves him from being thrown in jail, or protects people he cares about, or even merely adds a bit of drama, I will not be the one to destroy it. In the morning, assuming he's coherent by then, I can offer whatever help he needs. I see no need to involve doctors or police.

I decide not to call 911.


	7. Week 1:Saturday

7: Saturday

I wake up, not to my usual alarm, which I had forgotten to set last night, but to the sound of a guttural yell. I try to get up, but am cramped after an entire night sleeping in a chair, and pitch forward onto the ground. Every muscle in my body aches. I limp over to the bed to check on the bat man. He's muttering words again. I can barely make out "Bats" and "parents" in the jumble. His exposed eyes are clouded over, and he twitches as if in a waking dream. The sight terrifies me. Gotham's hero reduced to a helpless, mindless hulk. The symptoms are getting worse. It's painfully obvious the Activated Charcoal I gave him last night failed.

I drag my medicine kit towards me and hunt though it once again. I'm searching for something, anything that would be of use. Uncertainty grips me as I realize I have no idea what my patient is suffering from. After my second fruitless search, I'm forced to admit I have no answer. The cell phone offers a compelling safety net. I can call someone official. Someone with more experience than I; someone who could identify the poison; someone who could concoct an antidote; someone with access to the kind of scientific technology required. But it had to be someone who won't ask questions.

Someone like Lucius Fox.

Feeling inspired, I snatch my work bag and toss in my badge. If I arrive in Applied Sciences, begging for help, Mr. Fox will have nothing to base his cure off of. Bringing Batboy into Wayne Tower is not an option. Archives may be largely ignored, but everyone would notice me dragging a semi-conscious man through the foyer. I ransack the medicine kit to find my father's blood testing kit.

"Sorry, sir," I mutter to my oblivious patient. I pull off his left glove and prick his finger with the needle. Immediately he yells and tries to yank his hand away.

"I'm sorry!" I cry desperately trying to keep him still, "I'm sorry! Please calm down! I'm only trying to help!"

He looks at me for the first time since being in my apartment, but I don't think his eyes actually see anything. Nevertheless, he quiets down enough for me to take a small sample of his blood. I shove the bottle into my bag, close and lock all the windows, and dash to the door. I pause for one more glance at Batboy.

"Everything will be alright," I reassure him, although I know he can't hear me, "I'll make everything alright."

Twenty minutes later I'm running through Wayne Tower, calling a hello to Mary who yells back "Lyn go home! It's Saturday, you crazy woman!" After passing through the Archives, I dramatically burst through the doors to Applied Sciences, breathing hard and unable to get a word out. Mr. Fox sits at a computer, phone to his ear. At the look on my face the receiver droops a bit before he clears his throat.

"I'll be needing to call you back," Mr. Fox says quietly, eyes searching mine.

"How may I help you, Miss Pearl?" he asks with a puzzled look, setting his cell phone aside.

I take a deep breath and walk slowly to his desk. Feeling foolish and out of place, I reach into my bag and pass the blood sample to Mr. Fox.

"I need your help," I plead.

"Certainly," Mr. Fox says, "But what with?"

"A…friend…of mine…is in trouble," I say, "I think it might be poison."

I gesture towards the bottle, "That's a sample of his blood. I tried Activated Charcoal but it did nothing. Can you find an antidote?"

"I'll try, Lyn, but I can't promise anything," Mr. Fox says honestly.

I nod, "I understand. But I'm sure anything…would help."

"I'm sure it will," he takes the bottle and leads me over to a work station. I'm surprised by his complete lack of reaction. Isn't he curious about why I didn't take my 'friend' to the hospital? Something tells me Mr. Fox knows more than he lets on.

"Do you mind if I stay and watch?" I ask, "Before starting in Archives, I was in pre-med, following my father's footsteps. I still may not understand any of it, but I would find your work interesting."

"Of course," Mr. Fox replies genially and turns back to his work, "Now, to start off, we must first isolate the receptor compounds in the blood…"

I watch intently as Mr. Fox opens the small tube and draws a sample out with a pipette. I'm unable to follow most of what he's doing - spinning, drawing what he called the supernatant off the tube, setting up the analyzer - it's all over my head.

When he places the different samples into the analyzer, he pushes back from his desk, pulls off his glasses, and announces, "That's all I can do for now. The tests will take a couple hours to yield results. Why not take a lunch break?"

I glance down at my watch, surprised to see the analog dial announcing it was nearly two.

"I didn't realize it was so late. Do you want to go to a café?" I ask.

"I think I should stay here. Just to make sure the machine doesn't act up. Would you bring something back for me?"

"Sure," I say. Then after thinking of the falafel stand I add. "Is falafel okay? I know where a good stand is close to Wayne Tower."

"Sounds great," he says, and turns back to the machines. I leave for the elevator, but before I go I notice Mr. Fox pulling his cell phone out and dialing a number.

"Hello again, Alfred," I hear him say before the doors close and I'm whisked away to Archives.

Upon reaching the falafel stand I'm surprised to see a very under stocked cart along with a very jubilant vendor. I order two falafels.

"Having a good day?" I ask, looking skeptically at the half-empty cart.

"Oh, very good!" the man says, beaming, "Couldn't be better!"

"Great!" I enthuse, "What brought about such a change in fortune?"

He laughs, "The same man I denounced yesterday!"

"The bat man?" I ask, amazed.

"Yes! I will never say another word against him ever again. He fights crime on behalf of all the citizens in Gotham."

"What made you change your mind about the masked vigilante?"

"He saved my sandwich," the vendor states, patting a protective hand on his cart, "If a man will stoop to stop a sandwich thief, he proves his quality."

"He saved a sandwich…" I repeat in disbelief.

"A worthy rescue!" the man says defensively.

"I didn't mean to trivialize it," I assure him, "But I do believe I know the measure of Batboy's character better than a certain friend of mine." I grin wryly. Eat that bit of news, macho Bruce Wayne.

"Batboy! I like it. A perfect hero name! Strong, youthful…"

"Thanks, I thought so too," I say. I pause, considering, "Exactly how did Batboy save the sandwich?"

"Well, Detective Flass had just stolen money from my cart and was turning around the alley corner when I heard a strangled yell. I was so stunned I didn't think twice about leaving my cart out in the open and running to see what was going on," He tells me, "When I rounded the corner, Flass was gone! And the sandwich was lying on the ground. Of course, I was too terrified to move. But then I heard odd noises coming from above. I looked up. And there was Batboy, dangling Flass from the roof of a building." He gives a satisfied chuckle, "Flass won't be stealing anymore sandwiches from me after that. He's scared witless."

"Wow," I say, "Then Batboy's sole motivation for stopping Flass was to put an end to him stealing sandwiches? There must have been something more…"

Otherwise why is there a poisoned man lying in my apartment?

"I don't know," the vendor says, shrugging, "But when I got back to my cart, instead of finding it stolen, I found two 100 dollar bills in my till! Can you believe that? Batboy gave me money, like it was nothing." He smiles from ear to ear and hands over my falafel.

"That's amazing," I say, "Are you planning on doing anything special with the money? I noticed your cart is running low on supplies."

"I've decided I'm wasting my talent being a street vendor," he announces confidently, "I'm selling this cart, and finding another job. One that maybe won't make as much money, but will have a better chance of rising to higher positions. Someday, I'll be a cook in a top restaurant."

"Wonderful!" I exclaim, "When you do become a famous chef, I'll be the first to come in…and order falafel."

He laughs and waves my hand away when I offer him money for the food.

"A fellow fan of Batboy does not need to pay," he says, "I'm feeling generous, and I just need to get rid of the last of these ingredients anyway."

"Thank you," I say gratefully, "Hopefully we'll meet again sometime."

"Hopefully not here," he adds, grinning.

I wave goodbye and head back to Wayne Tower. Unfortunately for me, Mary is on her way out.

"Lyn, did you hear!" Mary says, grabbing my shoulders in her excitement, "Batman was sighted in the narrows! Residents reported seeing him running across rooftops."

"I…hadn't heard…" I say lamely.

"For goodness sake, Lyn!" She huffs, "Just think, he could have been on your fire escape and you would never have known!"

"Um…yeah…imagine that." I try to edge away inside.

"You have no sense of adventure," Mary admonishes.

"Next time I'll be sure to send him your way," I say and shut the door in her face.

"Wait, you haven't explained about Bruce Wayne!" She yells at me through the door.

"There's nothing to explain," I yell back, keeping the door closed. In the corner of my eye I see the elevator doors open. I let go of the handle and fly to the elevators, Mary in close pursuit. I hit the close door button and the elevator disappears before Mary can catch up. Once I'm down below in Applied Sciences, I'm safe. Mary never could navigate the Archives.

"Here's the falafel," I say to Mr. Fox, handing it over.

"You've been gone quite a while, Miss Pearl," he says, "Have trouble?"

"You have no idea," I say.

I watch him continue to work on the blood test. He explains things while he does them, but half of the terms are over my head. I get the gist of what's going on, but I doubt if I could make the antidote myself.

"Can you tell me who the antidote is for?" Mr. Fox asks while we wait for the tests again.

"I don't know if I should, Mr. Fox," I say cautiously.

"It's possible he's a mutual friend," Mr. Fox adds cryptically.

"A mutual friend who enjoys the night?" I ask, playing along.

"And the color black, yes," Mr. Fox says, grinning.

I nod, "Then I suspect we're speaking of the same person. How do you know him?"

"Long story. Not mine to tell. What happened?"

"I have no idea. He's…not exactly conscious enough to question. Basically I found him on my roof."

A pause. Mr. Fox takes off his glasses to scrutinize me.

"I thought I could help him," I try to justify my decision, "Like I said, I know a bit about medicine. My father was a doctor. Worked with Thomas Wayne, actually."

"Exactly how did you become an Archivist, Lyn Pearl?" Mr. Fox asks.

The question surprises me. I uneasily turn my attention to the test, which is almost finished.

"After dropping out of school, I had to find some way to support myself. Unfortunately being an artist doesn't pay well," I reply as casually as I can, "And the job is safe. I'm not…brave enough to step outside my comfort zone."

"And risking yourself to save the life of an outlaw vigilante, while going against company policy to enlist my help…is not stepping outside a comfort zone?"

"No," I say distractedly, "That's necessary." I lean down to look at the test, "I think the antidote is finished, Mr. Fox."

Mr. Fox gives me a measuring look. Then he smiles, "I think you're right on both counts, Miss Pearl. I'll have this ready for you in just twenty more minutes."

"Perfect," I say, a sense of relief washing over me.

We're interrupted by my phone ringing. I step aside to answer, only to find out that it is Chad calling.

"Mary told me you came in today. I'm here in Archives but where are you?" Chad asks

"Applied Sciences," I answer, "I'm visiting Mr. Fox." I glance over at Mr. Fox, who is still working on the antidote. He looks up for a moment to wink at me, a twinkle in his eye.

"Can you come up?" Chad asks, sounding odd.

"Of course, one minute," I say, hanging up the phone. I tell Mr. Fox I'll be back soon and take the elevator upstairs.

"No more missing prototypes I hope?" I ask jokingly.

Chad shakes his head, "I haven't heard a word about that from Earle."

"Then what do you need to see me about?"

He silently hands me a card. I open the fancy stationary and scan the contents. It's an invitation to Bruce Wayne's birthday party tomorrow night. I feel no reaction except disinterest.

"I checked the mail this morning and it was there. I don't suppose…did you get one?" Chad asks hesitantly.

"Mine must have gotten lost in the mail," I say, grinning.

Chad looks relieved, "Then you don't mind me asking you to be my date again."

"How many more favors will you need?" I sigh. Going to Bruce Wayne's birthday party seems like a bad idea in light of my new resolution not to talk, or think, about the man.

"I can't, Chad," I say, "I'm sorry, but I just can't. Please understand."

"And if I show up alone?"

"Perhaps we can use the gossip about me and Wayne to explain our breakup," I say.

Chad laughs.

"I'm serious," I add, "Go to the party. Tell them…exactly why I'm not there…and then explain why I'm not worth your time."

"Lyn," Chad says softly, "I don't…"

"Chad, I need a weekend alone," I say. Alone babysitting an overgrown bat.

"Okay," Chad says, hurt, "I'll see you on Monday."

I stare after him, feeling horribly guilty, but also liberated. My friendship with Chad will resume soon enough. In the meantime, I dodged another encounter with Wayne.

Mr. Fox asks me what Chad wanted when I return. I evade the question and request to see the antidote. He hands me the bottle.

"I've synthesized enough to cure our friend," Mr. Fox assures me, "And just out of curiosity, did you unmask him?"

"No," I say, shaking my head, "I don't think that's my decision to make."

Mr. Fox nods, giving me a knowing smile. I smile grimly back, wondering how Mr. Fox came to be acquainted with the vigilante currently in my care.

"Well, I'd better go administer this antidote," I say, feeling awkward.

Once I reach my apartment, I race up the stairs. I get about halfway before someone grabs me hard and pulls me back. I twist around and break away, only to be dragged back.

"Lyn, stop," a strong voice says. I quit struggling to get a good look at my attacker. Lawrence stands before me with a worried expression.

"Joan has been calling Sam and I every ten minutes to report strange noises coming from your apartment all day," Lawrence says sternly, "Either something is going on and you're not telling us, or you're in danger."

I falter, wondering how many people I'll have to lie to before solving my bat problem.

"What are you're talking about?" I ask, "I don't hear anything now."

"Sam thinks I should come with you to your apartment," Lawrence says pointedly, "And I agree. Even with Falcone in jail."

"That's really not necessary," I protest, but Lawrence is already walking upstairs.

"Lawrence, please!" I say, putting myself between him and my door.

"What's going on Lyn?" He asks, crossing his arms and staring me down.

I fiddle with my keys, trying to think of a way to explain. Chad's hurt face comes to mind, unbidden. I'm sick of lying. I swivel around to face Lawrence.  
"If I tell you, you can't say a thing. To anyone. Not even Joan or the kids," I say, judging his reaction.

Lawrence's face darkens with anger, "If you've gotten in deeper with the mob…I swear Lyn…"

"No!" I hiss, "Complete opposite, actually." Deciding the best way to make Lawrence understand is to show him, I let my door swing wide. Stepping to the side, I gesture to the bed. Batboy lies on top of the covers, unmoving.

"You killed the bat man?"

"Again, no! He's not dead, just…poisoned." I rush to Batboy's side and pull out Fox's antidote. "Hold him down for me," I tell Lawrence.

Lawrence tentatively shuts the door and moves toward the bed.

"I probably shouldn't ask," he says as he holds Batboy's shoulders down, "But how did this happen?"

"I don't know," I say, exasperated, "People keep asking but I just don't know. Clearly he's in no state to enlighten us." I gesture to Batboy. My hands are shaking as I open the antidote.

"Where are you going to stick that?" Lawrence asks, "He's covered in armor."

Good point. I assess the situation and decide there's no other way around it.

"Can you get one of the arm guards off? Or the whole chest plate if you must," I ask.

Lawrence jerks his head towards me to see if I'm serious.

"Why not just take the mask off while we're at it," he says sarcastically. Despite his reluctance, he lifts Batboy into a sitting position and searches for the way to get the armor off. He succeeds in releasing the cape from the shoulders, but gets no farther.

"Hold him up and I'll try," I say. I manage to get the gauntlet and armor off his left arm, only to discover the slippery under suit. However, the under suit is undoubtedly less tough than the armor. I grab scissors and carefully cut an opening into the suit.

"Apologies for ruining your suit," I mutter, "But, I'm sure you'll agree, it's for a good cause."

"Talking to incoherent bats now, are we Lyn?" Lawrence remarks. I ignore him.

"Lay him down again. And make sure he can't move his left arm. Last time he tried to hit me, and we need to get all of the antidote into him," I direct.

"Sounds like an ungrateful vigilante," Lawrence says.

Too focused to snap at Lawrence, I huff and bend closer to see the vein in Batboy's arm. I grab an alcohol pad and swab the area. Clenching my lower lip tightly between my teeth, I slide the needle in and depress the plunger. Almost as soon as I pull the needle out, the man on the bed went limp. For a heart-stopping moment, I'm terrified that I've killed him. Then, I see his chest rising and falling with each breath. Not dead. Merely sleeping.

Turning my attention away from my patient, I glare at Lawrence.

"You're the one who's ungrateful!" I accuse, "This man put Falcone in jail."

Lawrence's gaze shits between me and Batboy.

"Carmine Falcone won't stay in jail," Lawrence says bluntly, his brows beetling into a scowl. He heaves a sad sigh, "But if you're friends with this guy, I guess I'll have to approve of him."

He ruffles the top of my hair and heads towards the door, "If you need any more help, just call."

Feeling slightly flustered, I shut the door behind Lawrence and return to Batboy's side. I check his pulse through the under suit, confirming for myself that he's alive. Reassured and satisfied that everything truly was going to be alright, I find myself smiling.

Somehow, even with the suit, Batboy looks beautiful sleeping. I watch him for a couple more minutes. I'm amazed someone so peaceful can declare war on the underworld of Gotham City. The exhausted sleep of a man newly cured of poison hides whatever passion it is that pushes him to pull on that black rubber suit and attempt to make Gotham a better place. I reach for my sketchbook and curl up in my father's chair. There I sit, serenely watching over Batboy while drawing his form. I fall asleep with the book still in my arms.


	8. Week 1:Sunday Part I

8: Sunday

Today when I wake up the sky remains dark. The apartment is a shadowy blur. My mind processes sluggishly, everything moving as if in slow motion. Lifting my head takes more concentration than should be necessary. Despite my exhaustion, I manage to sort out the cause of the disruption. Batboy is sitting up in bed, his head hanging in his hands. His posture is the image of defeat. Instead of feeling disillusioned and let down, however, I find myself swelling with admiration that someone so human, so normal, could set such a high example.

He looks up at me, meeting my drooping eyes. The world stills as we stare at one another, neither one willing to be the first to move. The quiet of the night sets in, and the thought of one street vendor creeps into my mind.

"I heard you saved a sandwich Friday night," I say. Even my voice sounds tired. Was it Batboy fighting crime till wee hours of the morning, or was it I?

Batboy shows no reaction to my comment.

"I certainly hope that rescue wasn't what got you into this mess. The man was grateful…but a sandwich isn't worth it," I continue, "That poison was pretty bad stuff."

Still nothing from the masked man.

Sleep begins to cloud my head again. I can feel myself drifting off, but I resist, hoping for some sort of response from Batboy. He does nothing except watch as I try to fight my tiredness. Eventually my eyes slide shut and I drift off into dreams once again.

The second time I wake up, murky sunlight streams through my dirty window, playing across my face. I immediately squint through the light at my bed. As expected, Batboy is gone. A fleeting memory tells me I saw him right before he left, but it fades as if a dream. I drearily push myself out of the chair, unfolding stiff limbs to shakily stand up. A book falls out of my lap and hit's the ground with a wooden thump.

I bend down to pick up my sketchbook. The numerous drawings of a sleeping Batboy testify that what happened during the past few days was reality. And there, under my own drawings, something new: a scribbled outline of a bat in flight. I laugh. Perhaps Batboy's idea of a thank you note is a badly done contribution to my sketches. Thank goodness crime fighting requires no artistic skills.

Setting the sketchbook back in my chair, I collapse onto the bed. Finally, I can reclaim it. However, as I lie there, a part of me can't help but think of how hours ago he had been in the same spot. I consider getting up, but then I remember it's Sunday. I can spend all day in bed if I wish.

My ringing cell phone rudely interrupts my thoughts. Cursing whoever was calling, I drag my bag to me and fish around for the offending phone.

"Hello?" I answer groggily.

"Lyn, I need you to come in to work today," Mr. Earle's voice says over the phone.

"You've got to be kidding me," I groan, massaging away a headache forming at my temple.

"You will be paid overtime, of course. But this is not optional. I need you to be in the archives today," Mr. Earle's tone is final, condemning me to my fate.

"Why?" I ask uselessly.

"I need information! And I need it from the Archives! Why else?" Mr. Earle says, losing his temper slightly, and then slams the phone down.

I throw the phone across the room in a random gesture of violence. Then immediately regret it since I'll have to find it before I go to work. I momentarily consider quitting and applying for the library job Rose has been advocating for the past few years. I fantasize about having a nice, no stress, routine job again. No missing prototypes, no Bruce Wayne, and no Mr. Earle. But the archivist inside me reminds me of how much fun the job was before…well frankly before Bruce Wayne reappeared in Gotham City. Prior to Bruce Wayne…and Batboy now that I think about it…people like Earle and Falcone paid no attention to me whatsoever. Now I find myself useful. I don't like being useful. Or do I? I stand up, stretch, and briefly imagine myself as Batboy's partner in crime fighting. He probably could use a medical assistant. Besides random poisonings, he must get a lot of bruises from the fighting.

I shake my head to clear it of the ridiculous notions. I gather my work supplies, throw on the nearest semi clean smelling work clothes, and stalk out the door. I tiptoe past Lawrence's apartment, reluctant to explain last nights events when I don't understand everything myself.

At Wayne Enterprises I run into Mr. Fox on his way down to Applied Sciences.

"Coming in to work even on Sunday, Mr. Fox?" I ask.

"I have a few unusual requests that I need to get started on," Mr. Fox explains.

"Mr. Earle called you too, huh," I say, "Whatever the reason, it must be important since it can't wait till Monday."

"Mr. Earle personally asked you to come in to work today?" Mr. Fox asks, surprised.

"He did," I confirm, "This must be the fourth time he's visited archives since I was first hired."

"Could the unexpected visit have something to do with your friend Chad's newfound interest in the 47B 1ME?" Mr. Fox asks, sounding suspicious.

"Possibly," I say, avoiding the question. The fewer people who knew about the missing prototype, the better. I drop down into my desk chair and lazily flick the computers on.

"Have a good afternoon, Miss Pearl," Mr. Fox says gravely, looking disappointed in my silence.

I sigh and burry my head in my arms. All I want to do is sleep. Involuntarily I begin to drift off, my head resting on my desk. Just as everything slips into dreams, a familiar voice yanks me back to reality.

"Sleeping on the job, Miss Pearl?"

I immediately shoot up straight, fully alert. Standing in front of me, looking as humble and proper as can be, is Alfred.

"No never," I say, "But butlers would know all about that." I lower my head back onto my hands. The only person I'm staying awake for is Mr. Earle, and definitely not Wayne's butler.

"Just as long as the employers don't know, Miss," Alfred says with a grin.

His joke draws a smile from me, "All right, what do you want?" I ask.

Alfred clears his throat, stands stiffly, and pronounces "I have been sent to issue a personal invitation from Master Wayne, himself," and hands over a envelope identical to the one Chad showed me yesterday. I take it wordlessly, glance at the hateful thing without opening it, and proceed to place it in the shredding pile.

"He also wishes me to tell you that he has done his research and concluded he does not suffer from Dissociative Identity Disorder. He would like me to assure you that he does not experience headaches, time distortion, amnesia, or depression. Whether or not he has multiple mannerisms, however, may be questioned," Alfred says, giving me a pointed look.

"I suppose that was his attempt to beat me at my own game, and win back my good opinion," I say sarcastically, "Well, it didn't work." I shuffle papers around and pretend to appear too busy to continue our conversation.

"If I may, I think what Mr. Wayne was trying to say…" Alfred offers, "Is that although conceding to having multiple personalities, he does not view this as a condition, but as a necessity."

"Necessary for what?" I say, incredulous, "Does he enjoy these contradictions?"

Alfred chuckles slightly, "In my personal opinion, I believe he is beginning to."

"You seem to know him so well," I begin to say, "Can you tell me who issued this invitation - Gotham's prince, or orange hoodie guy?"

"I wouldn't presume to…" Alfred says, trailing off mid sentence.

"Pick one," I say simply.

"I would say Bruce Wayne is asking you, Miss Pearl."

I sigh, "That doesn't help me one iota." I hold up the envelope, contemplating my options.

After a minute, Alfred nods in my direction, says "Good day, Miss Pearl. I hope to be seeing more of you soon," and takes his leave.

Now completely awake, I put off deciding whether or not I'm going to Wayne's party and stack files. As a result, I'm looking particularly industrious for a Sunday afternoon when Earle finally comes in.

"I want all the files mentioning anything related to this prototype by end of day tonight," Earle barks at me, shoving a slip of paper in my face. I snatch it, reading the unsurprising number "47B 1ME".

"I'll look it up for you, if you could just wait a minute," I say, trying not to show my recognition.

"I don't have a minute," Earle snaps, then suddenly calms down, "But if you insist. It's not pressing or anything."

I prevent myself from asking why he called me in to work on my day off for something so unimportant. Instead I take special pleasure in telling him the files about 47B 1ME are not in Archives.

"I suggest you try Applied Sciences, Mr. Earle," I say stupidly, beaming falsely.

Earle glowers at me, turns on his heel, and marches to the elevator.

"Applied Sciences is in the other direction, Mr. Earle." My face is the picture of blissful innocence.

"Then take me there," Earle insists, letting out his frustration.

"Of course!" I say brightly, "Right this way." I lead him through the maze of cabinets, throwing in a couple extra turns for good measure. That'll teach Earle to overwork his underlings. I jab the elevator button viciously.

"Just hit the little red button when you need me again," I say, grinning evilly. I had every intention of 'not hearing' the bell.

Earle, looking preoccupied, merely ignores me.

I head back to my desk where I promptly fall asleep, figuring that Mr. Earle will be downstairs for a while.

"Lynnet Pearl!" A furious yell jerks me from my dreams. The yell echoes through the archives, making it impossible to discern the source.

"Mr. Earle, is that you?" I call back, perplexed.

"How do I find my way out of this infernal place!" is the response.

I grin. Mr. Earle seems to have gotten lost. What calamity.

"Just follow my voice!" I call, fully aware that doing so is not helpful whatsoever.

"I can't!"

I laugh silently to myself and start making my rounds through the cabinets to find him. Five minutes later I'm leading a very disgruntled Mr. Earle back to the front of archives. Before he leaves, Earle turns to me.

"I'm merging Archives and Applied Sciences into one department," he says bluntly.

I vaguely wonder if this means I'm out of a job. Which would be ironic since I had recently decided against quitting.

"You get Fox's job," he concludes.

I'm left speechless, mouth gaping. Fox is obviously my senior. If either of us were to be laid off, I should be the first to go. I feel my way back to my desk and sink into my chair. So many strange things were happening lately. And now Earle turns my entire world upside down. I'm well aware that like me, Mr. Fox employs no helpers. How can Earle expect one person to run two whole departments alone?

A minute later Mr. Fox appears in front of my desk. Before I can beg an explanation, however, he presents me with one half of the stack of files he's carrying.

"Hide these somewhere safe," he says, "I have a feeling these copies won't exist for much longer."

"What are they?" I ask, dazed.

"Information on the microwave emitter," he replies,

"Was that why Mr. Earle just told me…"

"Mr. Earle is under the impression that you will be easier to control. I hope you will prove him wrong Miss Pearl." Mr. Fox smiles conspiratorially.

I laugh in disbelief.

He winks and hands me a set of keys, "As the new head of Applied Sciences, you have the security clearance now." His expression suggests I take his offer and go investigate the department immediately. I slip the keys into my pocket.

"Of course," I say nonchalantly, "I'll need to familiarize myself with my new responsibilities." A task that will also cure me of my long felt curiosity about the department below.

"Of course," Mr. Fox agrees. He grins knowingly, "I'll tell Mr. Wayne that I've passed my job on to someone worthy."

I scoff, "I don't know if he'll share that opinion."

My response draws a chuckle from Mr. Fox. "You might be surprised," Mr. Fox says as he leaves.

The minute the elevator doors close, I'm practically skipping down to Applied Sciences. Once among the rows of prototypes, I hardly know where to start. Exhaustion forgotten, I spend a couple hours exploring the facilities as well as the inner workings of Mr. Fox's computer. Finally, I decide Mr. Fox's hints must have had some semblance of intent behind them, so I begin by looking through the 47B 1ME files he gave me. As I'm going through the pile I come across a few files buried in the middle that don't fit with the rest. The top one contains data on a "Nomex Survival Suit". The design plans have a familiar feel to them. The Kevlar biweave outer shell covers a neoprene undersuit, waterproof and able to control body temperature; an undersuit like the ones used by SCUBA or cave divers. Perhaps this suit was what Wayne needed for his spelunking explorations. I set the file aside for further investigation.

Next I unfold a large blueprint of what appears to be a heavily modified armored vehicle. Unsure of what significance Mr. Fox could possibly see in this, I set it aside as well. The last out of place file catalogs the contents of a climbing harness. Made out of Kevlar, the belt includes a magnetic grapple gun, monofilament line, periscope, medical kit, and plenty of extra compartments. I turn the page and let out a small gasp. No question about it, I have seen the belt in the photo before. A stand alone vigilante was wearing one identical to Wayne Enterprise's prototype during his visit yesterday. Perhaps Batboy was not as alone as he would like people to believe.

Everything clicks. And I realize how stupidly blind I've been. The past week's mysterious occurrences - orange hoodie guy, the playboy act, the extreme sports, the leverage on Falcone - it all suddenly starts to make sense.

Batboy is not just working with Wayne Enterprises. He is Wayne Enterprises. If I was the fainting type, I would have just hit the floor. What an ingenious plan, for no one would ever suspect the billionaire owner to risk his life on behalf of the lowly citizens of Gotham. Mr. Fox must have known all along, otherwise he would never have deliberately led me to make the connection between Bruce and Batboy.

Batboy Bruce. How appropriate.

Which meant Mr. Fox probably knew that the man I helped yesterday was Bruce Wayne, yet he neglected to enlighten me. Something must have changed that I wasn't yet aware of. And Alfred! Mr. Fox was talking to Alfred on the phone. He probably let Alfred know where Bruce was. Which could explain why Alfred seemed to take a liking to me. And Bruce knew. He surely recognized me, even behind that cowl. I groan in embarrassment. Did I truly scold Batboy about saving a sandwich? Bruce undoubtedly thinks me a simpleton now.

On the other hand, what would Mary say if I told her I had Bruce Wayne in my bed all of Saturday?

I allow myself a small laugh at the thought. Bruce Wayne, notorious playboy, chooses to spend an entire day with an unknown company archivist. Suddenly guilt over my reaction to Bruce's actions at the dinner Friday night overwhelms me. Although I can't perceive the need for a false identity, other than simply being Bruce Wayne, clearly Batboy would disagree. I sigh, restack the papers to be safely stored in the secret room, and head back to the archives, only to discover the time is 6:30. I've been in the department of Applied Sciences for three hours. I hastily tear open Alfred's envelope. According to the time printed on the invitation, I have a half hour to be at Wayne mansion. I dash for the train.

Back home I find myself getting ready for the party at light speed once again. Remembering Nancy's suggestion, I pass on the green dress and draw out the second one. Although the peacock blue feather designs put me in mind of a clown, at least I won't be wearing the same dress twice in one weekend. Pushing my glasses up my nose, I scowl at my reflection and decide I need to invest in contacts. Soon.

I'm about to step out my door when I realize I don't have a ride. My hand is poised over my cell phone to call Chad, but he probably is already at the party. My only other option is to go by bus. I throw on the largest overcoat I own, toss my sketchbook into my messenger bag, and run outside to the bus stop. On my third transfer I end up sitting next to Bob.

"That's a nice dress," he says in his typical gruff manner.

"Thanks," I reply, "Where are you going, Bob?"

"The batcave," he answers.

Since he's going in the same direction as me, I briefly ponder exactly how much Bob knows about Batboy.

"And where is the batcave?" I add.

"Frontage road," he says.

Bob gets off the Bus one exit before my stop and I conclude that, at least in this area of expertise, Bob is not all knowing.

"Exit 10," the driver announces one mile further. I get off the bus, teetering in my shoes, and stare with dread at the long walk up to Wayne mansion. Ten minutes later, and with significantly muddier high heels, I arrive at Bruce's doorstep. Alfred answers the door.

"Good evening Miss Pearl," he says pleasantly, "You look fashionable." he eyes my heels.

I conspicuously try to scrape some of the grass off on the steps.

"I had a little trouble getting here," I explain.

"Clearly nothing stopped you," Alfred agrees, smiling wisely.

I feel myself turning red. I hand over my coat and bag to Alfred, but insist on keeping the sketchbook. I think I might need my security blanket tonight.

"Mr. Wayne regrets that he is unable to greet his guests until later. He has urgent business elsewhere," Alfred informs me.

My dismay must be plainly written across my face.

"He instructed me to entertain the guests with funny anecdotes," Alfred says, "Despite him knowing very well my jokes only come naturally."

"You need a joke?" I ask, conversationally, "I know one about the difference between a bad golfer and a bad skydiver."

"What, Miss Pearl?" Alfred asks, humoring me.

"A bad golfer goes: _whack_… "Damn!" A bad skydiver goes: "Damn!"…_whack_." I say, grinning.

"Very good, Miss Pearl," Alfred raises his eyebrows, laughing softly, "That reminds me of Master Wayne and myself, when we began our hobbies."

I laugh, "Do you think it's safe to mingle with the high society folk in there?" I ask, peering into the room beyond.

"Depends on who you would like to talk to," Alfred says.

"I guess that makes sense," I contend, nodding.

"May I suggest you avoid anyone sympathetic to a certain executive friend of yours," Alfred says meaningfully.

"Chad?" I ask.

"Let's just say the current gossip going about the floor concerns an ugly breakup between a certain Miss Pearl and a Mr. Treves."

"I have the worst, timing, don't I?"

"I wouldn't presume to judge…" Alfred says, and disappears behind a servant's panel, leaving me to either flee or face the horrors within. I decide I didn't suffer through three transfers and a thirty minute bus ride for nothing and, flipping to a blank slate in my book, I walk boldly through the door. Of course, no one deigns to notice my elegant entrance. I find myself acting the part of a fly on the wall. I drift from conversation to conversation, keeping my head down, and sketching constantly. People spare little attention for the anonymous girl in a peacock gown. Eventually I find Chad.

"Ugly breakup, huh? You have my condolences," I say teasingly, coming up from behind him.

"Mary helped me embellish a little," Chad confesses, gesturing towards the receptionist. Mary notices his movement, sees me, and looks positively gleeful.

"Hide me before I do something stupid," I say, putting Chad between Mary and myself.

"Like what?"

"Like telling her where Bruce Wayne was Saturday," I say, ducking behind an ice sculpture.

Chad shoots me a confused glance but goes to intercept Mary's advance.

After avoiding thatz small mishap, I gloat for a couple minutes, and back into Earle.

"Sorry," I mumble, "I wasn't paying attention…"

"Lyn!" Nancy says, excitedly, "I've decided that Thursday of next week is the perfect day for you to paint our portraits!" She slips her arm around mine and leads me away, talking about portraiture.

Desperate for an excuse to get away from the dreadfully boring discussion, I scan the room for anyone I know. I spot Rose looking distinctly uncomfortable and out of place. I'm about to head in her direction when Nancy's grip suddenly becomes viselike.

"Nancy, what…" I say, trying to extract myself.

"Is it true?" she asks breathlessly, "You and Chad?"

"Oh…right," I say, trying to appear sad.

"I'm so sorry," Nancy sympathizes, tugging on my arm, "But truly, it's probably for the best. You're young, you'll find someone new."

"We're still friends," I say, pulling my arm away.

"After what happened? That's amazing!" Nancy exclaims, eyes going wide.

"Um…yeah," I say, wondering what supposedly happened between Chad and I.

"Well I think…"

"Nancy have you met Mr. Smith here?" I ask, depositing her arm onto the nearest guy next to me. Both parties look extremely confused, but I disappear into the crowd before they can react.

"Rose!" I call, getting her attention. When she sees me, her face lights up.

"Lyn, thank goodness!" Rose says, her relief evident, "I thought you weren't coming."

"I wasn't planning on it but something came up," I say.

"That doesn't make any sense," Rose says, blinking, "Whatever, I'm glad you're here. I despise large groups like this. I haven't said a word the entire night."

I laugh, "I didn't think this was your preferred way of spending a Sunday night. Why are you here?"

"Didn't you know?" Rose asks, looking sweetly innocent, "Chad invited me. He said you were busy…"

"Busy avoiding someone…" I mutter.

"What?"

"I'll explain later," I say, "I see someone I need to talk to."

"Lyn, don't leave me. Chad already vanished while getting drinks…"

"I'm sorry, Rose," I say and begin pushing my way through the crowd. I had spotted Mr. Fox by the buffet. On my way over, however, I feel a hand on my shoulder. Chad steers me towards a less crowded corner.

"I thought you hated Bruce Wayne?" Chad asks quietly.

"I did," I say, straining to keep an eye on Mr. Fox.

"Then why were you with him on Saturday?"

"I never said that."

"But you said Mary…"

"Chad, I was at Wayne Tower all day Saturday. You know that, so why are you bringing this up?"

"Then what did you mean…"

"I've got to catch Mr. Fox," I interrupt, watching Mr. Fox leave the buffet and nearly dissolve into a group of executives.

"W…why?" Chad stutters.

"I've been promoted," I call back. Finally I manage to get a hold of Mr. Fox.

"Mr. Fox," I say, "I read those files you gave me."

"And did you find anything interesting?" He asks, appearing for all the world as if there was nothing strange about the papers.

"Oh, it was most informative," I say casually.

"I'm pleased to hear it," Mr. Fox says.

"Actually I had some questions," I add.

"I'm afraid I don't know much else other than that," Mr. Fox gives me a look.

"I see," I say, "Well, if you see our mutual friend, I would like to thank him,"

"For what?"

"Among other things, for the lovely drawing he did for me," I flip back a few pages to show Mr. Fox the bat.

"I'll tell him your looking for him…if I see him. I believe he's late," Mr. Fox says, chuckling, and walks off.

That conversation was maddeningly vague.

"Falafel girl!" A voice calls out behind me. I whirl around to see the street vendor, looking decidedly less like a street vendor in fancy dress, waving me over.

"Falafel business booming?" I ask, smiling.

"In a way," he says, beaming, "Yesterday you inspired me to go straight to Wayne Tower to inquire about starting my own business. Did you know Wayne Enterprises has a food services branch? Apparently they've been looking for a manager to run the new organic food line. Mr. Fox hired me on the spot. Though he seemed especially interested in the fact that Batboy helped me. Anyway, soon I'll push for a restaurant chain and see where things go from there."

"Wow," I say, a little confused considering Mr. Fox was just fired, "Sometime you'll have to tell me the whole story of how that happened."

He laughs, "I'm Aaron by the way."

"Lynnet," I say, shaking his hand, "But most people just call me Lyn."

"Nice to finally know your name, Lyn. It's you and Batboy I should be thanking for my good fortune."

"And Mr. Wayne," I remind him.

"Well, I haven't met the guy yet, but from what I've gathered during my time here, he's not the type to get too involved in his business," Aaron says, dismissing Bruce's influence.

"He's better than Earle," I say quietly, nodding in the executive's direction.

"Who's that?"

"See what I mean," I say, "You haven't even met him yet. That is Bill Earle, CEO of Wayne Enterprises."

"Someone I should meet, in other words," Aaron says and sets off, "It was nice seeing you again."

I smile and wave him off. As I'm waving I spot Mary heading towards me, a determined look on her face. I raise an eyebrow at her, grin mischievously, and hurry in the opposite direction. I'm looking back to see if she's following when I run into someone. The man has a three foot radius of space surrounding him. The smell issuing from him could possibly be the reason for the bubble.

"Bob!" I exclaim, as he turns around to face me.

"Hello," he says, and continues eating from the buffet.

"What are you doing here?" I ask quietly, pretending to be interested in the food.

"I got lost," he says simply, "That's a nice dress."

"Thanks," I say, "Do you mean, Alfred let you in?"

"I came from the batcave," he says.

I stare at him, wide eyed. He knew all along.

"You might not want to repeat that," I say, stunned. An entire task force of police detectives tracking down Batboy, and they're beaten to it by Bob.

I edge away, only to be captured by Mary. I suppose standing in an area other people were avoiding was a bad tactical move on my part.

"You were leading me on a wild goose chase on purpose!" Mary accuses.

"No, I'm just popular," I say, gesturing to my full sketchbook.

"Yeah, drawing the freeloading bums shows real popularity," Mary comments on my most recent sketch, "What I really want to know is…what exactly happened between you and Chad? That Rose chick is looking pretty close to your ex." She wheels me around by my shoulders so I can get a good view of Chad and Rose laughing with Bill and Nancy.

"We were never actually engaged," I say, feeling rebellious.

"What?" she asks, looking simultaneously scandalized and excited.

"I lied," I say, "We weren't even dating."

Mary's face stays frozen in an expression of incredulity long enough for me to capture it on paper.

"Sorry to disappoint you," I say, and make my escape.

Just as I'm beginning to think there's no one left to pop up and accost me, an older woman with the poise of old wealth interrupts my drawing.

"Are you part of the entertainment?" she asks brightly.

"With all I've been going through lately, I might as well be," I reply, smiling.

"No, I mean, did Bruce hire you to do your little portraits?" she asks, a sickeningly sweet smile plastered across her face, "Like a mime, or one of those balloon animal men?"

A stunned silence settles over me and it dawns on me that this woman believes I'm hired help. I suppose I truly do resemble a clown.

Before I can respond, another gentleman comes over.

"Mrs. Delaney," he says stiffly, "We must prepare."

"Oh, but this young lady is a hired portraiture artist," Mrs. Delaney says excitedly.

"No, I'd rather not have a representation of my likeness…now come along," he offers his arm to the woman.

"That's funny," I say caustically, "An old friend of mine said much the same thing. I think the reaction is honestly just a pathological paranoia of…"

"Silence your inconsequential prattle," the man says, "Be off." He delicately waves me away as if I were a fly.

"I was the one to be disturbed in the first place," I mutter under my breath. I go to stand next to Bob at the buffet. The smell may be bad, but the break from the crowd is worth it. I'm listening to Bob's tirade about caves when Mr. Wayne at last makes an appearance. My eyes follow him from Mr. Earle, to Mr. Fox, to the middle of the room. There, he spots me through the crowd. I smile, and his face breaks into a genuine grin in return. He raises his eyebrows at Bob as if to say, 'What interesting company you keep'.

I laugh silently, glare significantly at Mr. Earle and make a face to respond with 'The wayward homeless man is better company than most in attendance.'

He chuckles then shrugs his shoulders and mouths 'Why are you here?'

I mirror his gesture and mouth back 'I need to talk to you'. I motion for him to come to me.

'One minute' he mouths, holding up a hand, and turns to address a short, blonde woman.

The same woman who thought I was part of the entertainment. She drags him off in the opposite direction as he glances back, his look telling me to stay put. I laugh and wait for him to become unoccupied. I watch him, subconsciously admiring his silhouette, when I see the gentleman from earlier approaching the pair from behind. The expression on Bruce's face when he turns around makes me start forward, but Bruce stops me with shake of his head. He and the gentleman argue over something, then Bruce holds up his glass and begins to make a toast. The arrogant, sarcastic grin familiar from Friday reappears on Bruce's face as he toasts to his 'sycophantic suck-up' guests. I find myself smiling through most of the farce.

At the end, however, he says "Get out," in a serious tone. He stares straight at me, his eyes begging me to leave. My smile evaporates to be replaced with utter confusion. I stand there like an idiot, gazing into his face, desperate for some sign or clarification. After a second of eye contact, he turns his attention back to the gentleman and continues their conversation. I take a step, but a gentle hand on my elbow holds me back.

"Come on Lyn, I'll need your help," Mr. Fox says and leads me away.

I numbly follow, empty of questions. I've learned to trust Bruce Wayne. All I can hope is that at the end of things, he truly will explain everything.


	9. Week 1:Sunday Part II

9: Sunday Night

I linger in Bruce's yard, gazing wistfully back at the now empty mansion. Mr. Fox has gone to get his car, leaving me alone in the cold night. Through the glow from the windows, I can see dark shapes moving around inside the mansion. A chill shivers up my spine that I can't seem to shake off, even by buttoning up my coat farther.

"Lyn, get in," Mr. Fox says, holding the door open for me. Thanks to my hesitation, we're the last to leave. I turn back for one more glance.

"Did you see Alfred?" I ask, my voice barely more than a whisper, "When we left…when Bruce made his speech…Alfred wasn't there."

"I don't recall…"

"Alfred stays by Bruce's side. He wouldn't make a run for it, even if Bruce ordered him to. He's too stubborn. There's got to be something wrong."

The stillness, the quiet of the night suffocates me.

"We should go," Mr. Fox prompts.

I shake my head, "No," I refuse softly, "I think Bruce may need a friend right now…more than you need my help. I'm going back in."

Mr. Fox watches me for a few minutes, then nods. The car drives away until even the headlights become invisible. Taking a deep breath to steady myself, I go back to the mansion. I'm steps away from the front door when I catch sight of flickering flames dancing n a window. Mind racing in confusion, I duck back behind the bushes. From my hiding spot I watch as dark figures silhouetted in the window fight. The irrational part of me urges me forward. In the back of my mind, however, I'm aware that placing myself in danger would only cause more problems for Bruce. Anxiety grips me. My hands twist the stems of the foliage, my feet itching to move.

I need to know what's going on in there.

Three…two…one…I leap out from behind the bush, but just as quickly my arm is snatched back.

"Miss Lyn," Alfred says calmly with a determined expression.

I gape at him, wondering where he materialized from. Bruce comparing me to Alfred might have been a compliment after all.

Alfred hands me an iron golf club. "The only difference between driving in golf and driving a car is that when you drive a car you don't want to hit anything," he says, holding his own golf wedge as if it was a club and waving it significantly.

I let out a nervous laugh and swing my club into a similar position. Together we advance on the mansion, holding out our golfing weapons threateningly. In the firelight I catch a quick glimpse of Alfred's face. The sheer anger and distress reflected there reveals more about Alfred and Bruce's close relationship than I could ever have imagined.

Alfred acts first, whacking the man stationed at the front door in the back. The man crumples to the ground. In the house, the fire and smoke covers everything. Dashing through the hall and into the study, Alfred sees Bruce lying unconscious on the ground. Alfred runs to his boss, letting the golf club clatter to the floor. Deep concern replaces any fury left in his face. I follow, but keep my hands gripped on my club as a precaution. Groaning with the weight, Alfred tries to lift a fallen beam off Bruce, but fails. Before I can dodge the flames to reach the other side and offer help, Bruce suddenly jumps to life again and pushes the beam away. Alfred lifts Bruce up and leads him farther into the house.

Confused, but trusting, I support Bruce on his left. The three of us make it past the flames and into the next room. Alfred stops to hit a few keys on the piano which opens a secret panel behind the bookcase. We hurry through the passage to an ancient elevator shaft. After seeing Bruce safely in, I sink down to my knees, feeling faint and clinging to the bars of the elevator cage. The cage descends swiftly, dropping us into the safety of what must be the batcave. On the ground, a delirious Bruce stares up at the inferno above. I remain pressed against the bars, frozen in shock. The idea of Wayne Mansion sitting atop a hidden vigilante den barely has time to set in before the house on top ceases to exist. The family home…burned to the ground. Now the question was…why?

"What have I done, Alfred?" Bruce asks breathlessly, "Everything my family…,my father, built…" He his face contorts in agonizing pain.

Alfred gingerly lifts Bruce's suit jacket up to reveal a huge gash in his side. Bruce truly is in pain, both physically and emotionally. The severity of his wound jerks me into action. As Alfred talks with Bruce I fumble the elevator doors open. Desperately, I search through the messy cave for anything useful. I snatch up a discarded robe and return to the elevator.

"Alfred, do you have any medical supplies down here?" I ask. Bruce stares up at me as if seeing me for the first time.

"Lyn?" he asks, brows furrowed and mouth ajar.

"It's a long story," I say, leaning down, "Stay still." I gently help him lie down, using the robe for neck support. Bruce grimaces in pain as I examine the stab wound.

"Thankfully, it's not as bad as it looks," I say, accepting Alfred's proffered medical kit, "But you lost a lot of blood." I turn to Alfred, "Do you have plastic wrap? Or pure granular sugar?" I ask before I begin cleaning the wound.

"No sugar, I'm afraid," Alfred says, but gets up to look.

I apply clean bandages to Bruce's abdomen, hoping an infection won't occur.

"Sugar?" Bruce asks, sounding worried.

"One can't be picky in a crisis," I say.

"Why would I keep sugar in a cave?"

"Late night cravings maybe?" I reply sarcastically.

Alfred hands me a cardboard box, "Plastic wrap, Miss Pearl," he says sternly, reminding me that I should be attending to my patient instead of exchanging banter. I take it and stretch the plastic around the dressing.

"Why would you keep plastic wrap in a cave?" I retort.

"I didn't know it was there," Bruce says defensively. He moans and lifts himself into a sitting position. Alfred and I each take an arm to help him out of the elevator and into a chair.

"Good work with the golf club back there, Alfred," I say, smiling.

"Business as usual," Alfred replies, grinning proudly.

Bruce shifts in his seat, "I don't think I want to know," he comments wearily.

"Master Wayne, shall I go check if the emergency cache remains in tact?" Alfred asks, reverting to the demur butler persona.

Bruce nods silently. He shrugs off his dinner jacket and shirt. He sucks in a breath at the sting of stretching the wound, but otherwise his mobility seems unaffected. Sighing, he leans against the desk, dropping his head to his hand. I spot another small cut on his lower left arm. Setting the medical kit down, I get out the bandages and antiseptic wipes. I reach for his arm but he pulls away.

"That's nothing," he says derisively.

"Even a small scratch will heal better if treated properly," I explain calmly, grabbing his hand. He relinquishes and I bandage the cut.

"How long have you known?" he asks, breaking the silence.

"A couple hours. Archives was merged with Applied Sciences and…well…I put two and two together," I say, perching on the desk.

"What? When?" he asks, surprised.

"Earle thought Mr. Fox was creating trouble. I have Fox's job now," I say wryly, "For however long I last."

Bruce shakes his head, trying to make sense of Earle's decision. He looks back up at me, "So you hadn't recognized me?"

"When?" I ask, "That phony smile on Friday night threw me for a bit, but even with the playboy mask, you're still Bruce Wayne…"

"Not Friday," he says, "Well…Friday…but you know when I mean."

"How could I recognize you? You were wearing a big black suit and a mask covering your entire face!" I say, laughing teasingly

He shrugs, "I don't know…the eyes…maybe?"

"I may be good at placing a face, but I'm not that good," I joke, "No, instead I recognized your belt."

"My belt?"

"Yeah, there was a photo in the design files. And the yellow color draws attention to it."

"So…I should paint it black?"

"Or just destroy the photo."

He laughs.

We wait for Alfred to return in silence. After a couple minutes, Bruce sits up straighter in his chair, a pondering expression on his face.

He turns to me, "Aren't you curious?"

"About what?"

"About the whole bat…thing," He says, gesturing to his suit hanging up in a closet.

I snort with laughter, "Bruce," I say patronizingly, "I'm an artist. I've seen stranger things."

When he still stares at me questioningly I add, "In school I knew a lot of art majors. One of which dressed up like a lobster and lived in a house he built on the campus green for months."

"You're comparing me to a lobster…"

"No, I'm merely trying to demonstrate how the urge to dress up in a dramatic costume is not completely uncommon or weird. After all, Lobster Boy…"

"Lobster boy?" Bruce asks, he raises his eyebrows, "At least I'm not the only one you give demeaning nicknames to."

"That particular conversation with you makes a lot more sense now," I say, blushing, "Sorry I offended your masculinity."

Bruce gives me a wry glance.

"Anyway, in all seriousness, I completely understand the need for a mask. Sometimes reality can obscure a message. A true identity brings with it old associations - whether that be demographic, ethnicity, political stance, or anything else that separates people. An anonymous cover allows people to project their own image onto the actions, and acts as a unifying element. And of course, a disguise protects the people close to you. Those reasons for a physical mask I understand," I say. I pause, debating whether or not to add the rest of my observations. Delicately, I continue, "What I can't understand…is the need for the figurative mask."

He stares at me, puzzled. Moments later he pushes himself up, one hand against the bandages, and starts to walk in the direction Alfred went.

"Why can't Bruce Wayne…be Bruce Wayne?" I ask after his retreating back.

He stops.

"You hide your real personality behind an act. Could it be because, perhaps the bat man is more akin to the real Bruce Wayne than you'd care to admit?" I ask.

Standing with his back to me, Bruce remains silent.

"I'm amazed I was privileged to see that secret side of you. I suppose my astounding conversational skills occasionally shocked you into dropping the phony image," I add, grinning.

"I somehow slip up whenever I talk with you," he concedes quietly, "You make me laugh."

My joking smile vanishes at his serious tone.

"Bruce…" I start to say, but am interrupted by Alfred materializing behind us.

"Everything remains intact," Alfred announces, handing Bruce and I plastic bottles of water, "Including the sugar."

I laugh humorlessly. Sipping the water, Bruce walks over to his bat suit.

"What are we going to do now?" he asks miserably, holding his injured side.

"Not to overstep my bounds, sir, but I believe Gotham City may require a hero at the moment," Alfred says.

"A broken one?" Bruce asks drolly, "Who just burned down his own house?"

"If you're going to let a little setback stop you," Alfred replies, "then you're not as strong as I believed you to be on the plane ride home."

I quietly abstain from point out that the 'little' cut across Bruce's abdomen has a rather large possibility of becoming even worse if he dons the suit again. But, calculating Gotham's chances of survival without Bruce at 0% and Bruce's chances of survival despite the cut at 95% (ignoring the inevitable, agonizing pain afterwards), I would say Gotham has the more pressing need.

Straightening his back and shoulders, Bruce's strength visibly flows back into him, "You're right," he agrees, "Alfred, get the Tumbler ready. Lyn," he pauses and makes a turning motion with his hand, "I need to change."

I find myself blushing again, but I hastily swivel around on the desk, "Please tell me you wear something underneath that suit," I say.

"As little as possible. It's hot, dark, and sweaty, and it gives me a headache," he says Minutes later he comes up behind me, fully dressed. He sets the cowl down and pins the cape to his shoulders, "If I hadn't been unconscious, I would have been miserable during the day and a half at your place."

"Comfort, or secret identity, you choose," I say, picking up the cowl and examining it.

"Clearly I ended up with neither," he says, raising an eyebrow at me.

I jump off the desk and walk over to hand the cowl to him, "Be careful," I say.

He glances down at the mask, then back at me. Smiling grimly, he pulls it on, and turns to face the armored car. I recognize the Tumbler from the plans in Applied Sciences. As Batboy Bruce runs to the driver's seat, the cape flares out behind him; a dark shadow cutting through the night.

"Go get 'em Batboy," I whisper, grinning.

Bruce doesn't hear me as the car peals out of the cave.

"Thank you," Alfred says. His tired, aged voice finally betrays the toll the night's events took on him. A tone undoubtedly kept hidden from Bruce.

"For what?" I ask.

"For everything," Alfred says with a weary smile, "The first thing Master Wayne told me when he mysteriously arrived back home this morning was 'Invite Lyn to the party, I owe her one.' He later intended to discuss a possible promotion with Mr. Earle."

I think back to this morning when Alfred showed up in Archives.

"About the invitation," I say, guiltily, "Sorry for being rude. It was just…Friday night was a bit of a disaster, actually. Of course, now the whole argument over Batman is laughable."

"I suggested he have fun as Bruce Wayne," Alfred tells me, "It was Master Wayne who turned it into an act."

"I should have known it was your suggestion," I say, chuckling.

A tense silence blankets the cave as we sit, and worry.

"So, what do we do now?" I ask, "Do you simply send him off, and then prepare for when he comes back bruised and battered?"

A pause.

"Sometimes I make tea," Alfred offers.

I laugh, "Honestly? You're perfectly content doing nothing but waiting?"

"I'm old, Miss Lyn," Alfred says frankly. Another thing he probably would never admit to Bruce.

"Well, I'm not," I say, pacing the floor restlessly. I run my hands along the gear on the table, idly examining the equipment.

"I don't do nothing, either," Alfred says. He gets up and shows me an earpiece I had assumed was part of his butler's tools. "If Master Wayne needs help, he will call. Until then, all that needs to be done is endure. Enduring uncertainty is not the same as doing nothing, Miss Pearl," he kindly, but firmly corrects me. Alfred reattaches the earpiece, giving me a stern look.

"You're there when he needs you, but not otherwise," I sum up.

"Exactly," Alfred says, "Anything else would only serve as distraction."

"Bruce has you for a mentor, Fox for technological help, so where can I fit in?" I ask.

Alfred considers my question. Then responds slowly, "I believe Master Wayne would prefer to give off the impression that Batman has no friends. Hence the mask."

"You're being protective of him, I can understand that," I say, "But isn't there some place in Bruce Wayne's life for a friend? Or informant? Or assistant? Or probably most often, medical aide?"

"You'll have to ask Bruce Wayne about that," Alfred replies guardedly.

Another moment of silence.

"Can you explain to me what's going on, at least?" I ask, desperate for some kind of understanding, "Who burned the mansion down, for a start?"

"I'm afraid I don't know the answer," Alfred says. He begins to tidy up the clutter in the cave, "All Master Wayne saw fit to inform me was that a poisonous toxin would be released into the air above Gotham, causing mass hysteria, and would begin in the narrows."

"The narrows?" Immediately my mind jumps to my apartment with Sam and Lawrence.

Alfred nods, looking solemn. My worry doubles. I pace the floor again, distractedly running my hand through my hair. Images of Sam and his family flicker by.

"Alfred, I can't wait here in safety," I say eventually, quiet and determined. I glance around, "Not while my family is being threatened. Is there anything I can use to drive to Gotham?"

Alfred watches me with a disappointed expression. Yet despite whatever misgivings he might have, Alfred gestures for me to follow him to the elevator. He points up the spiral metal staircase surrounding the shaft.

"If you can get above ground, the garage may still be intact," he says, handing me a ring of keys.

I take the ring and start to climb. I pause, mid step, "Alfred…when he comes back…tell him I went home," I request.

"I shall," Alfred responds.

I ascend the rest of the stairs, trying not to think about just how crazy my idea is. Making my way through the smoldering ruins of Bruce's mansion, I spot the garage a couple yards away. I kick open the door and burst in. The cars are all there, but upon inspection, each of the three sports cars are manual transmission. I've never driven a stick. I briefly consider taking one out for a test spin, until I remember the cars are probably worth more than my entire life savings. Instead I head over to a cleverly hidden moped peaking out of a secluded corner. I figure the small motorized bike is probably Alfred's and, after trying every key, I finally get it started. The moped sputters out of the garage.

At 35 mph on back roads, I'm not going anywhere fast. I sigh, resigning myself to the inexorable reality of a thirty minute drive. After an eternity of bumps, I speed into Gotham city, making a beeline for the bridges. I skid to a stop in front of the nearest bridge into the narrows.

"Why are the bridges raised?" I call out to a police officer.

"Commissioner's orders, miss," he replies, "The narrows is overrun. For the protection of Gotham's citizens, we closed all routes."

"And what about Gotham's citizens already on the island?" I demand, indignantly.

"Out of luck," the officer says without remorse.

I drive off in disgust, heading down to the waterline. I keep an eye out for anything I could commandeer to get across. Just as I begin contemplating swimming across, I catch sight of a man with a row boat.

"Hey you!" I yell, vaulting off the moped and running down, "Can I borrow your boat to get across?"

"Are you insane?" the man asks, "I just used it to escape from that damned island! Who in their right mind would want to return?"

"I have friends there…" I start.

"Then you'll find they're friends no longer," he says solemnly, "Everyone in the narrows has gone crazy. Some gas main broke. People were panicking! Families, friends, and mobsters were turning on each other. There are rumors that the police commissioner actually asked Batman to crash the train to stop people from getting out of the narrows. It looks like everything's clearing up now, but I wouldn't be too sure. They certainly haven't raised the bridges yet, have they."

"No, the bridges are still down. Which is why I need your boat," I say, "I'll give you this moped in return." I pull the key off, hoping I can repay Alfred somehow.

"It's a deal, crazy lady," he says, laughing. He passes me an oar and stares back at the smoggy mess of derelict buildings across the river. He continues in a bitter voice, "This just shows, don't it? At first sign of trouble, the rich and powerful cut us off and let the scum take each other out."

"They sent police officers," I argue, getting into the boat and orienting myself.

"And much help they were," he scoffs, "Panicked just like the rest of us, didn't they."

"Well, I know Batman, and I know he would never leave the narrows unprotected," I say in Bruce's defense.

He laughs, "Are you friends with the bat or something?"

"We're developing a relationship," I reply, straining to get the boat into the water.

He places a foot on the stern of the boat and shoves off.

"Good luck, friend of the bat!" he mocks. I can hear his disbelieving laughter fade as I row away.

Once on the narrows side of the river I sprint through crowded streets. The rowboat man was telling the truth, everywhere people seem dazed, as if on drugs. Police, thugs, and ordinary citizens are all milling about, helpless. Pushing my way out of the mass confusion, I reach my house and speed up the steps. I pound my fist on Sam's door, screaming his name to make myself heard over the din in the streets.

No answer.

I turn to Lawrence's door and throw myself against it, but to no avail. The door holds strong, a testament to the strength of my father's home. Before returning to the streets, I head upstairs to arm myself with my trusty flashlight. Heedless, I crash through my open door, and am promptly thrown to the ground. The impact knocks the breath out of me. Dizzy and drained of strength, I feel pathetically feeble as a thug pulls me to my feet. He twists my arms behind my back and yanks my hair to force me to look up at my captor.

"Well, well," says a smooth voice, containing a hind of insanity, "Miss Pearl decided to join us."

I stare at the mobster in front of me, not recognizing his face. He must be one of Falcone's gangsters.

"Do you know why I'm searching your apartment, girl?" he asks, settling himself in my father's chair.

"No," I gasp.

"Carmine Falcone never emerged from Arkham Asylum," he continues, "Even though all other patients were freed. I want to know why."

"I have no idea! Why would someone like me know?" I cry. A thug hits me in the gut. I sag, a dead weight being held up only by the man behind me.

"Falcone intended to use your information as further blackmail for Jonathan Crane. A backup plan, in case Crane caused trouble. Clearly, the information was bad," his calm demeanor transforms to fully reveal a drug induced insanity, "Now you are going to tell the truth. Even if we have to force it out of you." He stands up and levels a kick at a blurry black pile in front of me. A pile I didn't notice until then.

Batman?

No, the thug thrusts me forward and close up I can tell the mass of black is made up of individual books.

"Were you working for Crane?" he asks.

"No, never! Only for Falcone," I say desperately, staring with horror at my desecrated sketchbooks.

"Do you know who Crane was working for?"

"No one. He was working alone…for the asylum," I say.

"Wrong!" the man barks at me. He gestures and two other gangsters begin to pour a liquid onto the pile.

"No!" I gasp, "Please, I'm trying to help."

The man shakes his head, "You know, after looking through these…I never realized how much trouble you were capable of. Falcone must have turned soft, letting the likes of you live," he picks up the nearest book and flips through it, "Information on half the thugs in our outfit. Family, background, motives, drawings of mug shots. What are you, some kind of spy?"

"They're just personal sketches," I protest weakly.

He glares at me in disgust. A pause. Then, "Light it," and he walks away without another glance.

Before I can react, the books erupt into flames. I let out an angry scream, find an untapped source of strength, and break free of my captor. I launch myself at the man's retreating back, bringing my knee up to his groin. I manage one last punch to his head before I feel a sharp pain at the base of my neck and everything starts to blur.

I fall as if in slow motion. But just as my eyes cloud over, I feel strong, safe arms gather me up.

I wake up in an underground room lit with flickering lights. Moaning, I push myself up, feeling a bandage on my head. Decrepit tables and chairs are scattered through the room with décor suitable for the 1900's. The entire place is covered in a layer of dust and smells stuffy from disuse.

"Lyn!" someone cries, rushing to my side.

I look up to see Joan enveloping me in her arms. The kids are swift to follow, and the four of us huddle in a group.

"What happened?" I ask woozily.

"Nothing, you're safe now," she insists, "That's all that matters. Everything else is superfluous."

"What happened?" I repeat, my head beginning to clear. I can detect the guarded reluctance in her voice.

"Carmine Falcone's son, Alberto, attacked you apartment," Sam says bluntly, coming to stand in front of us.

"That's who that was," I mumble, "I was wondering…"

"We got you out and stopped the fire," Lawrence adds, "But…" he trails off, "Like Joan said, we're all safe. That's all that matters."

I nod numbly, knowing without needing to question what they avoided saying.

"Where is this place?" I ask instead.

"In the 1920's the restaurant functioned as an underground speakeasy. Literally underground. At the first sign of trouble, I brought our family to the restaurant. Thankfully, whatever gas was leaked outside didn't spread down here," Sam explains, "As soon as the streets cleared, Lawrence and I went back to get you. And found Alberto's gang."

I take a deep breath, "I see," I say, "Clearly I should have stayed where I was safe." I giggle humorlessly, "I had fancied that I would come save you. Thanks to my stupidity it was the other way around." I burry my head in my arms, deeply ashamed.

"Its okay," Joan whispers, squeezing me tight, "You couldn't have known."

I allow myself to be comforted by this little white lie.

"The gas is all but gone now. I think it's safe to go up to the restaurant," Lawrence observes, "We can watch the progress from there."

Sam agrees. Joan helps me up and the six of us climb the stairs to the main dining room. We sit at a booth in stunned silence, staring through the window at the madness. In a single night, my entire world collapsed around me. I thought I was done with the mob when Falcone was caught. Obviously I was mistaken.

The door jingles and a pleasant knock disturbs the quiet. The normalness of the sound unnerves me. Sam cautiously gets up to open the door.

"If someone needs help, we can't refuse them," he says calmly.

He opens the door a hand's breadth, then tries to shut it. But a firm push forces it open.

"Sam, old friend," the crime boss Salvatore Maroni steps through the door. He comes alone, except for one man who I recognize as one of the thugs who stood by and watched my sketchbooks burn.

"What do you want, Sal?" Sam asks, putting himself between Maroni and our booth.

"A mutual friend informed me of the service you did for my family," Maroni says, smiling. The cold grin doesn't extend to his eyes.

"And what would that be?" Lawrence asks, confidently striding forward to stand next to his brother. Joan and I remain seated, the kids in between us.

"You rid me of a certain pain in my side," Maroni says, "A certain rival, Alberto Falcone."

"I wasn't aware he died," Sam says.

"Regrettably, yes," Maroni, "Of wounds inflicted by you and your brother."

The tension in Lawrence's stance suggests otherwise. Sam and Lawrence would never attack someone with the intention of killing.

"I'd like to believe you got rid of the younger Falcone out of loyalty to me," Maroni says.

Maroni's spinning a web of blackmail around Sam and Lawrence. If they blame Maroni for Alberto's death, they will be killed by Maroni's men. On the other hand, if they take the blame, Falcone's men will come after them. Which way they spin the story will rely on who has the most power. With two head members of the Falcone family dead, the answer is Maroni.

"You will be taking over the outfit," Sam says, a question as much a statement.

"We will," Maroni confirms, "And I think we'll be using this restaurant as a base. A thank you gesture, of sorts. Any place good enough for Carmine Falcone is good enough for me."

Maroni smiles, fully aware he's maneuvered himself into a position of clear succession to the old crime boss. By claiming Falcone's old hideout as his own, he proves his power over Falcone's old followers. He's also ensured Sam and Lawrence's discretion about how exactly the Falcone's fell out of power.

That done, he turns to me.

"You, however, are now a liability," Maroni says gravely.

It makes sense. As the person suspected of being involved with Falcone's disappearance, I'm the easy scapegoat. I'm aware I had nothing to do with it, but the rest of the mob isn't. If Maroni blames me, whoever did away with Carmine goes free.

I get up to stand across from Maroni, "Blame me, and me only," I say, unable to face Sam or Lawrence.

"I liked your father, girl," Maroni says, "It's too bad he had to go and get himself killed. In respect of our old friendship, I'll let you get away. But any connections you have here in the narrows need to be severed. Do you understand?"

I'm to leave and never return. Sam and Lawrence remain quiet. There's no other way.

"Yes," I say, staring down Maroni's gaze.

He laughs, "You've got your father's strength of mind. Maybe after this Falcone mess is cleared up, you'll join us."

"I'll never join you willingly," I say decisively.

"Yeah, well….oh well," he says, smiling. He idly gestures to the thug behind him. I find myself being carried out and tossed into the street. I slam into the ground, face first. Pushing myself up, I hear shouts of surprise and a door slamming behind me. I lift my head, and come face to face with Batboy.

He pulls me to my feet without saying a word.

I follow Bruce to the Tumbler, feeling a mix of shame, relief, and fear. I collapse into the passenger seat and close my eyes against the world.

"How did you find me?" I ask dumbly.

"Alfred," he says harshly.

My mind is a jumble of all that happened. But every thought goes back to my weakness; my utter vulnerability when the thugs set fire to my books. It wasn't a matter of will. I was mentally prepared to defend myself. It was merely a matter of strength. Alberto overpowered me, simple as that.

I vow to never let it happen again.

Back in the cave, Bruce opens the hatch of the Tumbler and comes around to my side to help me out. I stare at his extended hand without taking it.

"Teach me to fight," I say plainly, attempting to see into his eyes behind the mask. A glassy white glare covers them.

"You're not thinking clearly," he says gruffly.

"I'm being perfectly clear," I say.

"It's the toxin speaking," he argues. He retracts his offer of assistance and leaves me in the car. I watch him walk away, pulling off his cowl as he does so.

Sighing, I remain in the comfortable safety of the car. From a distance I can hear the soft cascade of the waterfall. I push myself out of the seat and stumble over to the falls. There I lean against the rocky cave wall, letting the water wash everything away. My knees give way and I sink to the floor, succumbing to tears.

After a few minutes, Bruce comes to stand beside me. I look up and see he's changed into his suit from the party.

"You'll get wet," I say, hiccupping back tears.

He doesn't look at me, seemingly mesmerized by the water.

"Maybe it'll wash out the blood and burn marks," he says dryly.

I laugh mid sob. Using the wall as support, I stand up to hear him better over the water.

"What happened?" Bruce asks, turning to me with concern.

I tell him, with much spluttering of water, about the sketchbooks.

"I could have saved them," I choke out.

"That's it?" Bruce asks, half grinning in amazement, "Gotham barely survives a gas attack, criminals control the narrows, and you're broken up by a few destroyed books?"

I laugh again, coughing up tears and water, "It's stupid, I know," I admit, "But they were all I have…had…left of my father. In his own way, he was an artist too. He kept hundreds of those blank books for dong medical illustrations in his spare time." I pull off my jacket to wipe my face on it, shivering in the cold water.

Bruce leans in closer to place a comforting hand on my shoulder. He doesn't say anything; he doesn't need to. I drop my jacket and impulsively throw my arms around him, burying my face into his shoulder. Startled, Bruce stiffens and draws back slightly. After a moment, though, he returns the embrace. We take mutual comfort in each others' arms. The water pours over the two of us, mixing with my tears.

To me, our embrace lasts for an eternity. Eventually, however, Alfred steps up to the waterline, carrying a tea tray. I reluctantly release Bruce.

"Master Wayne?" Alfred interrupts politely, "I discovered tea and orange juice in a spare fridge hidden with the rest of the emergency supplies. Shall I leave it on the desk?"

I smile warmly at Alfred through my wet eyes, "Tea sounds wonderful," I say and follow him into the cave. The three of us sit down at one of the work benches. Bruce drapes his robe across my wet shoulders. I sip at Alfred's delicious tea, feeling safe and warm.

"May I enquire as to where we will be staying tonight?" Alfred asks, looking expectantly at Bruce.

Bruce takes a gulp of orange juice and replies, "I was thinking the penthouse above Wayne Foundation. Where my father stayed after late nights at the hospital."

"Of course," Alfred says, "If Miss Lyn would give us the keys, we could take a car there as soon as we're finished."

"Oh…right," I say, fishing for the key ring in my jacket pocket.

It's another quiet car ride to the penthouse. The receptionist raises an eyebrow at the state of our clothes, but by then a couple of fire engines had been dispatched to survey the wreckage of Wayne Manor, so she asks no questions. The escapades of a billionaire do not go unnoticed by rumors.

In the apartment, Bruce offers me the bed, takes a couch for himself, and Alfred disappears into the servant's quarters. I change into an old pair of men's pajamas and crawl into bed. I'm asleep the minute my head hit's the pillow, sheer exhaustion finally taking control.


	10. Week 2:Monday

10: Monday

Sitting behind my desk at 8:00 Monday morning, my mind drifts back to the spacious penthouse above Wayne Foundation. I can picture the owner still sleeping, sprawled out on the couch. I stifle a gigantic yawn, and wish desperately that I had a trust fund to fall back on. Instead I find myself coming in to work like usual, despite having spent the entire night chasing Batboy across Gotham. Everything is back to normal. Well, as normal as it's going to get. I'm down in archives, Mr. Fox is on the top floor with Earle's job, and life reverts back to routine as best it can. It'll be a nasty shock for Earle when he finally shows up today.

I pop open my daily checklist and briefly wonder why there isn't a 'nap' option. Yet, however tempting a nap may be, I'm no longer working overtime, so I had better get something done in the next couple hours. Especially since I now seem to be the head of two departments. How ironic that I moved up in the world by taking over the basement.

For ten minutes I debate over whether or not I should archive all the information I gained last night. My insights are not complete, of course. There was no time for explanations. Tonight, when I see Bruce again, I will ask him to make good on his promise. Of course, that's assuming I'll see him again tonight. Should I make such presumptuous assumptions?

Eventually I decide to label the information under "Batboy" and classify everything as strictly confidential, only for Bruce Wayne's eyes. Feeling a surge of excitement, I create the database file. I am adding a new chapter to the Wayne legacy. While writing, I make sure to highlight the gaps in the timeline which Bruce will need to fill. After a few hours of typing, I'm left with fifty new files and a plot riddled with holes.

No wonder I spent most of this past week confused. In an attempt to clear things up, I retype my basic timeline in checklist form:

_Meet Bruce Wayne - be unforgivably annoying,_

_ Encounter Bruce Wayne on streets disguised as a bum,_

_ Teach Bruce Wayne about extreme sports,_

_ Tuesday night dinner at Earle's - Embarrass self with little white lies,_

_ Dinner with Bruce Wayne in disguise ,_

_ Get leverage on Carmine Falcone - for Bruce Wayne,_

_ Get leverage for Carmine Falcone - on Jonathan Crane,_

_ Friday night dinner at Gotham Hotel - meet 'Gotham's Prince',_

_ Save overlarge bat creature on top of roof,_

_ Cure Batboy of poison,_

_ Discover Batboy's true identity via Applied Science's secrets,_

_ Sunday night birthday party for Bruce Wayne - become the night's entertainment,_

_ Help the butler pull Bruce Wayne out of his burning mansion,_

_ Patch up a wounded Bruce Wayne,_

_ Foolishly go to the narrows to save Sam,_

_ Get on Alberto Falcone's bad side,_

_ Get on Salvatore Maroni's good side,_

_ Be banished from the Narrows,_

_ Be dragged back to the batcave by Batboy_

I print an old copy of my day's checklist and compare the two. Despairing, I ponder whether or not the random new additions will be a permanent problem. Perhaps I should just add a new box: 'Spend an indefinite amount of time being distracted by Bruce Wayne'. With a sheepish grin on my face, I watch my hands involuntarily type another line:

_Fall for rich, arrogant playboy._

Oh dear.

"Lyn," a voice says cheerily.

"Mary!" I exclaim, wiping the stupid smile off my face while hastily deleting the last line.

"What's that?" she asks, glancing at my printed checklist.

"Nothing," I say, crumbling it up and tossing it in the trash, "Except…maybe it's time I invested in a planner."

"Took you long enough to figure that out. Here are the newspapers," Mary announces, tossing the stack on my desk, "Nothing interesting anyway. The big news won't be printed until tomorrow." She beams ecstatically at me.

"You have gossip?" I ask, feigning interest. Though honestly, I just need some time alone.

"Yes!" Mary gushes. She sits on my desk and excitedly prattles on about the troubles in the narrows. None of it matches what I experienced myself. As far as I know, Bruce cannot transform into a red-eyed bat beast and most definitely cannot rip apart iron rail supports with his bare hands, no matter how much muscle he has. During a break in her chatter, I subtly change the conversation to something that has been nagging me at the back of my mind for a while.

"Mary, you're a people person…," I begin.

She raises an eyebrow at me, "Yes?"

"How does one know if a guy is attracted to you?" I get out in a single breath, my face burning with embarrassment.

Mary squeals, "Who is it?"

"No one in particular…it's purely hypothetical," I wave off the question, regretting ever opening my mouth.

"Have you been friends with this guy for a while?" she asks, a knowing smile playing across her face.

"No, it's not Chad," I say, exasperated, "I only just met this guy last week."

"So there is a guy!" Mary exclaims, triumphant, "And obviously you've been thinking about him a lot…"

"He's been kind of unavoidable," I protest.

"Well…" Mary says, thinking hard, "When you're sad…is your greatest desire for him to wrap you in his arms and tell you everything will be okay?"

I blink at her.

"It was a little bit on impulse, but yeah I guess," I answer reluctantly.

"Lyn!" Mary says in shock, "Who is this mystery guy?"

"I'd rather not say."

"Do you get the feeling this person enjoys your company too?"

I pause in my work to think.

"He doesn't dislike me," I say, unsure, "He says I make him laugh."

"That could be a good or a bad thing," she says, "Did he mean it in a 'you are really weird' way or 'you are very funny' way?"

"Funny…I think," I say, smiling to myself.

"Do you live, breathe, and eat thinking about this person?" Mary asks dramatically, clasping her hands wistfully.

"Like I said, lately he's been around a lot," I say.

"So he works here!" Mary concludes excitedly.

"No!" I say, a little too fast.

Mary laughs, "Don't worry, I enjoy a challenging guessing game."

"It's no one you know," I insist, knowing this is a half truth.

The elevator pings behind Mary, interrupting our conversation. I quickly pull the stack of newspapers to me and begin shifting through them.

"Leave, I should be working!" I whisper urgently at Mary. She sighs huffily.

"Ok, but you're not off the hook this easily. I will figure this out!" She turns around just as the elevator doors open.

And out steps Bruce Wayne, looking very posh in a new suit and styled hair; as if he hadn't spent the entire night beating up bad guys to a pulp.

Mary swivels on her heel to face me, looking positively gleeful. Her eyes have a knowing gleam to them that doesn't bode well for me.

'Later!' she mouths, giving me a wink before gliding into the open elevator.

"She seems happy," Bruce says, smiling widely as he walks up to my desk.

"Unfortunately," I say miserably.

"Bad day?" he asks.

"Some of us need to go to work instead of sleeping in until…" I glance at the time, "12:42 in the afternoon."

"Some of us deserved the extra rest."

"Yeah, well, some of us can't afford to take a vacation even if they deserve it," I retort. Then, sighing, I add, "Please, let's not start this again."

Bruce laughs softly, "Actually I agree."

"With what?" I ask.

"Take a vacation," he says, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself, "You could…come help me clean my mansion."

I look up at him, trying to decide if he's joking.

"I could use a friend," Bruce adds, his face turning serious.

A friend.

"Sure," I say softly. Then a grin escapes, "Can't leave all that work for Alfred after all. It wouldn't be fair."

"Never," Bruce says, chuckling.

"And I believe you owe me an explanation," I add on the way up the elevator.

"I do," Bruce concedes, nodding.

As we leave Wayne Tower together I sneak a furtive glance at Mary. Upon seeing us together, she looks as if her birthday just came early. I shoot her a warning glare before following Bruce outside. I sigh, wondering how many new troubles I just brought upon myself.

"Maybe you should just go home and sleep," Bruce says, noticing my unusual solemnity. He holds the car door open for me. I slide into one the fancy vehicles I didn't dare touch yesterday, giving Alfred a cheerful hello.

After Bruce settles into his seat I warn him, "You are not slithering out of this. You will tell me everything, and I will archive it all in the basement of Wayne Tower for future generations."

Bruce smiles in that all-knowing way of his, and hands me a ream of paper. I take it, perplexed.

"How did you…" I trail off, speechless at the novel length record of events in front of me.

"You woke me up when you left," he says, "What else was I going to do with an extra four hours?"

"Thank goodness you didn't ask Mr. Earle for a job in the Archives," I say, flabbergasted, "I would be out on the street in a second."

"Everything's in there," he states, peering at me expectantly.

I briefly pause in my fascinated reading, "Of course," I say, "Thank you."

He dips his head generously.

"This is…amazing," I add. I slip the stack into my bag for later.

"If you have any questions…" he says quietly.

"I'll be sure to ask them in a private setting where we won't be overheard," I say, smiling.

Bruce's eyebrows shoot up, "Well, I was going to say you could call me, but your suggestion works too."

"Any excuse for some alone time with the Prince of Gotham, right?" I tease, laughing.

Bruce looks away, seemingly uncomfortable when confronted with his alter ego. Immediately I regret my playful jab.

"Did you see the article on page eight?" he asks, passing me the _Gotham Daily_.

I spread open the paper to find a huge photograph of Bruce's ruined home.

"Okay, maybe not so princely anymore," I say, but a smile twitches at the corners of my mouth.

"At least it helps my reputation," Bruce comments wryly.

"Indeed," Alfred interrupts, "Perhaps, sir, you should start an annual birthday tradition. Your reputation would be ensured."

Bruce chuckles, "I think burning down one's house is somewhat of a…once in a lifetime experience."

"I certainly hope so," I say, "Such a waste! Not to mention adding to the pollution. The narrows is bad enough as it is, thank you very much."

"Will you stay there?" Bruce asks, obviously concerned, "Even now, with all of Arkham loose."

"I don't know," I say, truthfully, "I need to go back at some point, if only to pick up what remains of my belongings. Not that Alberto Falcone left me much."

"I don't know if I was sympathetic enough last night, but…" Bruce says, "I'm sorry."

"I understand," I say, smiling, "And I'm glad to hear you say that. Because it'll cost Wayne Enterprises quite a bit of money in ink and paper for me to print all the digital copies of my sketchbooks down in archives.

Bruce's face breaks into a surprised smile, "You have copies?"

"Of everything," I say, "Not as good as the originals, but they'll do. I'll just have to start from scratch with that."

"Good," Bruce says, nodding, "You have my permission to use as much ink and paper as needed."

"Thank you," I reply, graciously.

"You're welcome."

A pause.

"So," I say, "Friday night…what happened?"

"Well, for starters I was not saving a sandwich," Bruce says, eyebrows furrowed, "But I was aware Detective Flass was regularly stealing from the vendor."

"And you left him money, yes I know that bit," I say, "But how were you poisoned?"

"Let me finish," he says, "I interrogated Flass to find out who the rest of Falcone's drugs were going to. He claimed not to know anything but through…aggressive questioning…it came out that the drop off point was in the narrows. From stories I'd heard about Jonathan Crane through my DA friend, you, and other sources, I got an idea that he was somehow involved. If I recall correctly, you mentioned seeing him near your apartment. So, I searched there first."

"I still don't understand how this connects with being poisoned…" I say.

"Crane sprayed me with a hallucinogenic toxin intended to induce panic. A large dosage can be potentially fatal."

"So Crane was up to something fishy!" I say triumphantly.

"Yes, you were right to suspect him. Falcone was the pawn this time."

My excitement at being proved correct dissipates. I turn away, remembering the true reason why I was researching Crane.

"And Crane was the cause of the insanity last night?" I ask, staring out the window.

"The cause, but not the brains behind the operation," he responds.

"Who…?"

"Ra's Al Gul," Bruce says, bitter disappointment filling his voice, "My old mentor. He betrayed Gotham…again. The drug was meant to force Gotham to destroy itself through panic."

"Your old mentor? Do you think you could elaborate?" I ask probingly.

"During my traveling days," he says evasively.

"You promised a full explanation," I push.

He looks at me, an amused expression on his face.

"Fine," he says, grinning slightly.

"Start from the beginning," I say.

For the rest of the ride to Wayne Manor, I'm treated to a fantastical story of Bruce's journey into the depths of the criminal underworld and eventually into the mountains. As he spins the tale, I watch his face intently. Relief, and a feeling of unburdening radiates from him.

How many people have insisted on hearing Bruce Wayne's full story?

By the time we reach the blackened, burned out hull that once was Wayne Manor, the narrative is complete. As we get out of the car I have one question remaining.

"All right," I say, "I know you have reasons behind this, because you hinted at it last night, but…what is so special about Chiropterans?"

"Simple," he says, grinning, "I'll show you."

I follow him down past the wreckage to a old, decrepit garden shed. The soot covered stone walls are all that remain. In the center stands a well, surrounded by burned weeds. I walk up to the well and lean over to see below.

"It leads to the cave, doesn't it?" I ask, turning back to Bruce. He's standing off to the side, watching me.

"I fell in when I was 8," he says, "The bats attacked."

"So you're…afraid of bats…" I laugh incredulously, "I don't believe you."

He just looks at me.

"You can't be serious," I say, "If it is true then…what…you thought you could overcome your fear by assuming the persona? What are you trying to prove, Bruce?"  
"I'm not trying to prove anything," he says, coming to stand beside me at the well, "I have an irrational fear, and I find it entertaining that now mob bosses have the same."

"You really are afraid of bats," I state, staring at him wonderingly, "I can't believe it."

He raises an eyebrow, "I've learned to manage it."

"Clearly," I say, smiling.

"Master Wayne," Alfred says, entering the shed behind us with a large wheelbarrow, "The wood for the new cover."

"Thanks, Alfred," Bruce says, picking up a wooden plank and testing its strength. He positions it on top of the well.

"Why cover the hole up?" I ask.

"Can't have workmen falling into the cave," Wayne says, eyebrows furrowed in mock concern.

"Of course," I say, nodding in agreement, "I imagine discovering the Tumbler in a cave underneath the Wayne grounds would give the game away."

"Speaking of workmen," Alfred says, "The clean up and salvage crew are here. Shall I see them in?"

Bruce laughs, "I think that would be appropriate, yes."

Bruce drags a hammer and nail out from the wheelbarrow and proceeds to hammer the plank into place. Meanwhile, I explore the debris in the shed. Pulling up a rope half buried in the rubble, but still intact, I carry it over.

"Lower me down and I can start packing up the cave for you," I say, tying one end of the rope to a hook.

Bruce stares at me blankly.

"I assume you will not be coming back here to transform into Batman for a while," I say.

"True," Bruce says, thinking aloud, "Where am I going to set up a new base?"

I shrug, "Somewhere in Gotham would be convenient." I hand him the rope.

"Maybe I can convert the underground floors of Wayne Tower," he says, taking the rope in his strong grip.

"You better not," I warn, "Bad enough you blew up the car garage in front of the tower. A couple more feet and the archives would have been history. Not to mention you after I finished with you."

He laughs. I step up to the well, preparing to scale down the side.

"Wait," I say before I slip off the edge of the stones, "The other way up isn't blocked is it?"

"The stairs are still usable, Miss Pearl," Alfred says, coming up from behind us, "Just be careful not to let any workmen see you emerge."

I nod and kick off the wall. Once on the ground I look back up at the pinpoint of light outlining the heads of Bruce and Alfred.

"Should I load everything into the tumbler?" I call.

"You'll find a small storage compartment in the rear of the vehicle," Alfred yells down.

Bruce's head jerks towards the Butler's in question.

"Mr. Fox added a few design alterations at my request," Alfred explains to him, "Storage space always comes in handy."

I can see the silhouette of Bruce shaking his head before it disappears to be replaced with another wooden plank. I smile at the interaction between the two and begin to gather up the piles of tools in the cave. Organizing the randomly strewn equipment parts and supplies is slow work. I sort, box, and transport the stuff to the beat of Bruce's hammering. Occasionally I step below the hole in the ceiling and throw out a question of where something goes. Bruce's head briefly appears in the light, answers me, and then goes back to covering the well. Eventually I finish. The entire contents of the cave fit into Alfred's 'small' storage compartment. I tell Bruce so, leaning casually against the cave wall underneath the well.

"Alfred enjoys order," Bruce answers as he works, "I'm lucky he left the cave mess alone for this long."

"I can appreciate that," I say, smiling to myself.

"Not surprising," Bruce says. The hammering pauses. "I told you everything about myself," he says, "So how did you become an archivist?"

"Oh, pretty much the same story. Amazing adventures in the east and all that," I say jokingly.

"Sorry, that version is already taken," he says, resuming the hammering.

Bruce told me the entire reason behind his disappearance seven years ago…so why can't I bring myself to confide in the same way? A part of me wishes to tell him the truth. But the discreet part wins out in the end.

"I needed a job," I say simply, "And I came to the right place at the right time. Nothing special."

"Who had the job before you?"

"An old man who desperately wanted to retire," I reply, "He might have merely chosen me because I was the first applicant in years."

"His name?"

"Frederick Waltham. He was very kind. Showed me everything, and spent weeks of training with me before pronouncing me fit to run the archives. Of course, he was very odd as well. His happiest moments were spent with his nose buried in old books. But then the social recluses attracted to that sort of job often do tend to be a little bizarre."

"Social recluses?"

"Omitting me."

"I think Mary would disagree."

"You've been talking with Mary?" I demand.

"I believe someone advised me to learn the names of my employees."

"But you didn't have to gossip with them!" I argue, "What else did she have to say?"

"About you?" Bruce asks, "Mostly rumors concerning that Chad guy."

"I assure you Mary's gossip is nothing but rumors," I say, laughing in relief.

"I surmised as much," Bruce says dryly, "What did you do before coming to Wayne Enterprises?"

"Would you believe I was in Med School…" I say sardonically, "I dropped out. Decided I needed to take a more artistic path….besides other reasons." I trail off into silence. The subject of my leaving school being a rather touchy one for me.

The hammering stops and Bruce's head appears in the single bar of light.

"Last one," he says, "Come on up and we'll leave."

I nod up at him, smiling broadly. He returns the smile and drops the last plank in place, plunging me into darkness. I blindly feel my way to the wall, standing still for a minute to let my eyes adjust. I glance up at the well. Through the cracks I can see two shadows. The second, I assume, is Alfred.

Then I hear a woman's voice.

Curious, I strain to hear the conversation.

Unfortunately for me, curiosity killed the cat.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you, Rachel," Bruce says.

"I never stopped thinking about you…about us…" the woman, Rachel, says hesitantly.

At the sound of 'us' I look up in surprise. The couple above me are silent, merged into one shadow. I stagger backward. I suppose I should have known; known better than to entertain the notion of Bruce Wayne and….

My mind goes forcibly blank.

Feeling foolish, I wander over to the waterfall. Coming as close as possible without getting soaked, I let the falls play over my hands.

A mystery woman I've never even heard about shows up at Bruce's house and…well, perhaps I don't know him as well as I thought I did. My traitorous memory compels me to recall the number of times Bruce's 'DA friend' snuck into our conversations. Apparently 'Friend' may have been the wrong descriptor.

The slight clatter of scattered pebbles pulls me back to reality.

"Miss Pearl?" Alfred asks, joining me by the falls, "Did you get lost finding your way back?"

I stay silent, watching the cascade and the invisible figures I imagine intertwined.

"May I take you home, Miss Pearl?" Alfred asks again.

"I don't think home exists anymore, Alfred," I say frankly, thinking of the wreckage in the narrows.

"Then where will you go?" he asks kindly, but his tone makes it clear I'm not welcome back at the penthouse.

"I'll go to a friend's," I say, finding the old determination within me. I'm acting silly over a man I've known for little more than a week. The world did not end (though mostly because said man saved it), life will go on, and I will persevere, like always. Bruce may decide he only needs an assistant, a friend, at the moment, and that's what I'll have to be. Nothing more.

I turn my back on the waterfall and lead the way out.

An hour later I'm standing in front of Chad's apartment door, my school trunk propped up by my side. I knock on the door again, desperately hoping Chad is home since I told Alfred not to wait. The trunk contains the few meager belongings I can't stand to leave behind. I'm technically still renting the apartment in the narrows, but the area has become too dangerous for me to live there. So, leaving the majority of my stuff in the apartment, I turn to the one person I can always count on.

"Lyn?" Chad asks, looking confused. He's still wearing his work clothes, with his tie askew and sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

"I need a place to crash for a while," I say, wheeling the trunk through his door, "Do you mind if I stay here?"

"No! N…not at all," Chad says. He steps back to let me in.

"Thanks," I say, "I'll be homeless until I can either move back into my place or find somewhere new." I slump onto one of Chad's counter stools and burry my head in my hands. Tears threaten to spill. I feel so tired and sore; too much to take in too soon.

"What happened?" Chad asks, moving around the counter and into the kitchen.

"Nothing specifically…" I say, attempting to avoid the barrage of questions Chad is sure to unleash.

"Lyn, you refused my offers of finding a new apartment or staying with me for years," Chad says, "And suddenly, out of the blue, you've decided it's a good idea? I don't think so." He leans against the counter across from me, trying to catch my eyes. "Tell me what happened," he repeats.

I feel my face burning, partially from embarrassment and partially from anger at myself. I can't tell Chad the truth.

"Does it have something to do with whatever happened in the narrows last night?" Chad prompts.

"Oh…yes!" I say, realizing I had a legitimate excuse all along, "All the Arkham inmates escaped. I've basically been ordered to stay away. Home is too dangerous now."

"Sam and Lawrence know what's best," Chad says, "And I agree. After the mass panic last night, I wouldn't step foot in the narrows even in the middle of the day." He moves away. I can hear him opening up the fridge and pulling down a glass from a cabinet. He pushes the glass towards me. I lift my head to see a full cup of chocolate milk in front of my face. In spite of my morose mood, I smile.

"Thank you," I say, sipping at the milk. Some people drown their sorrows in alcohol, I drown mine in chocolate milk.

He sighs, "I don't know what you got yourself caught up in, Lyn. But I wish you would tell me. Maybe I can help."

I shake my head, "You're helping by letting me stay here. There's nothing else that can be done."

"How can you be sure? I trusted you with the news about the missing prototype."

"I do trust you, Chad," I say.

An awkward pause. If I confide in Chad about Falcone, I can burry the other reasons deep down. On the other hand, if Chad decides I should go to the police, how can I ever face Bruce again after admitting I aided a criminal? The prospect of covering up my feelings, and hiding from them myself, wins.

I take a deep breath, "All right. I'll tell you. Do you remember the day you came in to get information on the microwave emitter? Well, I had some trouble of my own…"

I explain about Carmine Falcone, Jonathan Crane, and Salvatore Maroni, while leaving out all mention of either Bruce Wayne or Batman.

"I can't get Maroni's words out of my head," I say, "He practically implied that my father and he were…friends. It doesn't make any sense. My father refused to join the gang. That's why he was killed."

"Maybe it's not that simple," Chad says.

"Well, whatever it was, the secret died with him," I say mournfully, "There is no way I'm going back to Maroni for answers."

The doorbell rings.

Chad leaps up to get the door, swinging it wide open.

"Rose?' I ask, seeing her through the doorway.

"Lyn! What are you doing here?" Rose asks, pushing a package into Chad's arms and pulling me into a hug, "You look awful!"

I laugh, "Thanks. Makes me feel tons better."

"I'm just giving you the truth, dear," Rose says, holding me at arms length, "What happened?"

I sigh heavily again. Knowing I'll get no quiet until I tell her, and that Chad will probably repeat everything behind my back anyway, I go through the whole agonizing process again.

When I'm done, Rose looks worried, but not as alarmed as I had expected.

"You did the right thing," she says, "I don't care how much you think your actions were immoral or cowardly, or whatever. I think you did the right thing."

"I ran away, Rose," I say, "Both times."

"You kept people safe," Rose says, "That's all that matters."

"Joan said that too."

"Joan's insights are often correct."

"I should have been stronger," I say, "And better able to fight off thugs like Maroni. Instead I found myself playing the damsel in distress. I would look a fool in comparison to people like…that bat character."

"People like the bat man instigate trouble. Before he started disturbing the status quo the mob killed each other. Other than a few exceptions, people like The Russian or Falcone didn't touch us average civilians. Now people like you, Sam, and Lawrence are getting harassed because the bat man put the mob on alert," Chad argues.

Rose nods, "He hasn't killed anyone yet, but he's certainly put most of his victims in the hospital. It's only a matter of time."

"He wouldn't kill anyone," I protest, "And his 'victims' are only victims of their own choices."

"You think he won't, since he hasn't so far. But the problems have only just begun. The mob isn't going to just lay down and take this. There will be repercussions," Chad says, "Like you experienced."

"And do you deserve to be one of his victims because you helped the mob, however briefly?" Rose questions.

"Maybe I do," I say, "Maybe I need to learn how to protect myself, and others if need be. To fight, not flee."

"Fighting solves nothing," Rose warns.

"What do you suggest I do then? Return to the narrows and offer myself up as an informant?" I challenge.

"No. Get a new place in the better part of town. I know you can afford it," Chad says decisively.

"You're considering moving?" Rose asks, turning to me in surprise.

"I'm following Maroni's orders to stay away," I reply sourly, "Currently I'm living here."

"Here?" Rose asks. She and Chad exchange an unfathomable glance.

"Yeah," I say slowly, "Is that a problem?"

"Of course not," Rose says sweetly. She pulls me off the stool and into the living room. "I brought over some documentaries…watch them with us."

"That sounds relaxing," I say, smiling genuinely for the first time that evening.

Like always, the three of us lounge on Chad's wraparound couch, watching the movies. Occasionally we pause the picture and spark debates over facts or dates. For all appearances, it could have been your average Monday night.

Feeling comforted, I wrap one of the living room blankets tighter around my shoulders and sink farther into the couch. For now, I'll survive by faking blissful ignorance. Nonetheless, underneath the pretense of normality lies the uncomfortable truth: everything has changed, and not necessarily for the better.


	11. Week 2:Tuesday

11: I'm so sorry about the lack of updates! Real life has been crazy with projects, papers, and way too much to do! I've begun writing chapter 12, but it's not even close to being finished. Anyway, enjoy chapter 11 and I'll continue writing asap! :D Disclaimer: Don't own anything or anyone related to Batman.

The next morning, with the parking garage temporarily out of service, my one option for getting to work is the train. Together, Chad and I step out of the station and start up the steps to Wayne tower, when suddenly a car pulls up alongside the curb. Bruce Wayne unfolds out of the vehicle, cutting in front of us on his way to the glass doors. He spares a brief glance for me, but makes no remark. Feeling slightly affronted, I ignore the unexpected encounter and meekly follow Chad. Upon entering the building I'm confronted with the sight of Bruce leaning against Mary's desk, flirting shamelessly. Mary's eyes flicker towards me, guiltily.

I head straight for the elevators.

From the side I watch Mary pick up a stack of papers and politely excuse herself. She half trots over to me. Stepping into the elevator, I pause to keep the door from closing.

"Honestly, that guy is too much of a playboy for you, Lyn," Mary announces, tossing her hair slightly.

"I don't know what your talking about," I say monotonously, feigning indifference.

"Oh please," Mary said, "Don't try to convince me what that jerk was doing back there didn't bother you. I saw your face when you walked through the door."

"Sorry, but you've lost me," I say, shrugging in confusion.

"You can do so much better than him," Mary thinks for a moment before adding, "Well, maybe not in terms of money and looks. But in personality? Definitely."

I laugh at the irony. If only she knew.

"Oh no," Mary says sounding distressed as she scrutinizes my expression.

"What?" I ask, reverting to my usual alert countenance.

"What we talked about yesterday, it's true," she says, giving me a mournful look.

"You'll have to explain that one…" I say, grinning slightly.

"It's unrequited love, isn't it!" Mary says, taking my hands, "I'm so sorry!"

"What?" I stutter, pulling away. I sit down behind my desk and flick on the computer.

"The bad boy image might be alluring initially, Lyn, but you'll get sick of it after a while. Trust me, I have experience here," Mary says seriously. Her eyes go dark.

"Who…?" I ask stupidly.

Her hair flips over to the other shoulder. "Old news," she says, "My point is: Bruce Wayne is bad news. Give up on him now while you still can."

"Who said anything about Bruce Wayne?" I ask, distractedly searching the newspapers for more information about the murdered DA.

"Or maybe it is too late," Mary says, staring at me. I look up, my face turning red. She shakes her head. "You'll regret it, Lyn. But I'll help in whatever way I can. Like not flirting back, for starters," She rolls her eyes, her face making it clear she does not approve of neither my infatuation choice nor my silence.

"Mary, nothing is going on between me and Bruce Wayne," I state, sighing.

"Then why do you look like that when you talk about him," she says teasingly, smiling despite her misgivings.

"None of your business," I say, "You don't know half of it."

"So tell!" she urges, leaning on the desk.

"I'm working!" I say, pushing her elbows off my papers.

She laughs, muttering "Okay, okay," and leaves me to my thoughts.

Once alone I groan and drop my head onto my desk. I do not want to become Mary's next charity case.

_Which, I won't. Because I don't love Bruce Wayne. _

I pick myself up and start cataloging the day's newspapers to distract myself. The headlines announce the death of Gotham's district Attorney, Carl Finch. Workers discovered his body in a Falcone shipping crate. However, with Falcone mysteriously disappeared, little can be done. After an hour of work yielding no useful information, I find my mind wandering. Salvatore Maroni's words surface, sending a chill down my spine. 'I liked your father, girl,' he said, 'it's too bad he had to go and get himself killed.' A wave of fresh anger on behalf of my father's reputation washes over me and I storm off into the cabinet maze. I stop in front of one drawer I've always known about, but never touched.

"Dr. Dan Pearl" I read the name of the file out loud. Gathering up the scraps of courage left in me, I drag the file out of the bin and lug it over to my desk. Turning over the first page I'm greeted with a very large headline:

"Falcone Thugs Gun Down Innocent Bystander"

My heart pounds as I stare at the news article I've heard people reference so often. All I knew was that Falcone murdered my father. Rumor on the street was that my father refused to join the mob, making him a threat to Falcone. But that's rumor. Now, after six years, I think I'm ready for the truth.

I flip past the front page, which contains nothing but a photo of my father's ruined office after the massacre. Although the photo shows nothing except the dark blood stains remaining, I still shudder to see it. Instead of analyzing the photo, I devour the content of the article, circling anything I could research further. Unfortunately, the factual information in the article leaves a lot of holes in the story.

It was an ordinary day. My father had stayed at work late, like usual. Officially, the shooting was a random occurrence. It was night, the medical center in the narrows was never known to be the safest place, these things happen. The article mentions briefly that all the other victims were members of The Russian's gang, but fails to attach any significance to this fact.

I slide over to my computer and begin to dig deeper.

The Narrows Medical Center was founded by my father seventeen years ago. On a year I remember well; the year I left for the boarding school. I mentally note the odd coincidence and continue my search. News articles claimed Dan Pearl ended his ten plus years at Gotham General after the death of Thomas Wayne. My father is quoted as saying 'It's well known I stayed at Gotham General largely because of friends there. Now, I believe I'll be able to do more good by starting a practice closer to my patients.' Although loath to lose one of Gotham General's top doctors, the managers wished my father best of luck with starting out on his own. Taking a run down, unkempt little hospital five blocks down from his childhood home, Dr. Pearl transformed the place into a smoothly functioning healthcare center. People speculated where Dr. Pearl found the money to initiate all these changes, but no one seemed to know.

I, however, come across the answer tucked behind the article: a classified document giving a small yet significant amount of Thomas Wayne's vast fortune to my father. Stapled to the corner is a handwritten note stating 'put it to good use' in elegant cursive. The date on the note reveals it to have been written a year after Thomas Wayne's death. I set the papers aside for further investigation.

Returning to my computer, I discover that the mobsters killed alongside my father were all head members who reported directly to The Russian. According to tabloids of the time, The Russian himself was supposed to be at a secret meeting held that night. The meeting was staged in the Narrows Medical Center to avoid suspicion. Nothing hints at my father being aware of said meeting. I briefly vent my frustration and move on.

"Busy working as usual, I see," a soft voice nudges me back to the present.

"Mr. Fox," I greet the new executive standing in front of me in surprise, "Why are you down here when you could be on the top floor hobnobbing with high class people like the business owner himself?"

I can see Mr. Fox's eyes catch the little joke, but his expression betrays no connection between him and Bruce.

"I know," he says, "I only came down to see how you were transitioning."

"Very well," I say, "I'm not sure what you did as head of Applied Sciences, but there's little that needs done. Other than puttering about and tinkering with things." I smile teasingly.

"Exceptionally astute, Miss Pearl, as always," Mr. Fox says with a twinkle in his eye, "Who do you think continued Thomas Wayne's tradition of constantly working on improving new technologies and adapting military science for everyday use? I suspect you shall be seeing me down here from time to time. I feel it's best to keep in practice, and the work is very relaxing."

I laugh in relief. "Thank goodness for that. I couldn't do half of what you accomplished. Not with all the technological help in the world."

"Perhaps you underestimate yourself. In my experience, I've found people often can do the impossible if they merely stop labeling the task as such," he responds.

"Perhaps," I say, "But differences in brain activity levels also factor into the equation."

"I wouldn't have made you head of both departments if I hadn't thought you were capable," he says kindly.

"You promoted me officially?" I ask eagerly.

"Indeed," he says, "And, yes, your salary went up accordingly."

"Unnecessary, but a nice gesture," I say, grinning, "Now I have no excuse not to buy a new apartment."

"Are you still living in the narrows?"

"No, I'm temporarily staying at a friend's," I say, waving the subject off, "Mr. Fox, I want a straight answer…did you place those extra files in the copies intentionally?"

"If it's a straight answer you want, why don't you just ask the question," he replies with a smile.

"I…" my thought process falters as I try to form the words

"I believe the one you're looking for is, 'Do you know Bruce Wayne masquerades as a bat, apprehending Gotham's most wanted by night?'"

"That'd be it, yeah," I say sheepishly.

"Then I'm afraid I can't answer that," Mr. Fox says, winking, "Have fun in Applied Sciences, Lyn. I'll be back tomorrow night to work on a few updates."

"Wait," I say, holding up the note, "Do you recognize this?"

Mr. Fox glances at the paper, the recognition in his eyes immediate.

"Of course. I wrote it," he says simply.

"And you gave it to my father, didn't you?" I ask.

"I did."

"Can you tell me why? Please?"

He sighs, obviously not wanting to discuss the subject. "Lyn, your father made some mistakes in his past. I wouldn't advise bringing them to the surface again."

"If he made mistakes, why are you, or whoever wrote out this document, giving him money?"

"Because I made mistakes too," Mr. Fox admits, "I gave your father the money back when I was chief executive of Wayne Enterprises. Dan claimed he needed it for a new hospital he was starting in the narrows. If I had known what would happen, I would never had agreed to it."

"So that's it? His mistake is choosing a bad business location?"

"A mistake which cost him his life, Lyn," Mr. Fox corrects me coldly.

I falter, taking a second to let my train of thought catch up.

"I know," I say softly, "I know."

Mr. Fox's face is pained. He takes a step back and says, "Wallowing in the past never brings closure. Learn from mistakes, but don't look back in regret."

"Too true," I agree. We study each other carefully, each gauging the other's withheld memories. Finally, Mr. Fox turns to go.

"I must return to the board," he says, turning his eyes to the ceiling as if able to see the executives waiting for him fifty floors up.

"Of course," I say, "And it's probably time for me to take a lunch break. Thanks for helping me solve that little problem." I slip the note into my bag.

He inclines his head towards me and holds the elevator door open. I nimbly weave through the files surrounding my desk to join him.

"I'm serious, Lyn," Mr. Fox adds just before I step off on the first floor, "You're father was an excellent doctor who refused to believe in the threat of the mob, nothing more."

"And I just need to be certain of that fact," I say. I walk into the lobby of Wayne Enterprises, make note of Mary's absence at the desk, and see the elusive figure of Bruce striding towards the large glass doors. I hastily quicken my pace, willing him to stop. Even just a few seconds of conversation - a reassurance of our mutual friendship - would be enough. I'm a footstep away from the door when I blindly crash into a distinctly familiar executive.

"I'm so sorry," I say, desperately trying to help the man stand upright. The same man I hid behind to avoid Mary's prying eyes. And the same man who I incorrectly introduced to Nancy as 'Mr. Smith' at Bruce's birthday.

I have never felt more embarrassed than I do now.

"I remember you," the man says, peering at me from behind a foggy memory, "You're rather all over the place, aren't you?"

"A bit," I admit sheepishly, "Sorry again….for multiple things."

"Ah, yes," he says, "We have had a few run-ins previously, haven't we? Only not quite so literal, of course."

I nod, my attention straying to Bruce disappearing into a car waiting outside. I heave a sigh and turn back to the man I just knocked over.

"Lynnet Pearl, correct?" he asks. Without waiting for an answer he takes my arm in a grandfatherly sort of way and leads me out the door, "You seem to be under the impression that my name is Mr. Smith. Why don't we have lunch at The Fitz and be properly introduced?" he adds, naming a restaurant with high enough prices that I wouldn't dream of casually going to lunch there myself.

But then again, I did just get a significant raise in pay; I have to put the extra money to use somehow.

"That sounds nice," I say, smiling.

"Wonderful," he says "My real name, by the way, is Roger Fredericks."

"Roger Fredericks?" I find myself repeating his name dumbly.

The Roger Fredericks, president of the board. I seem to have a talent for insulting high placed individuals.

"Yes," he says, "Though my influence over the board has somewhat lessened lately. Hopefully that will reverse thanks to the change in management."

"You approve of Mr. Fox, then?" I ask.

"Lucius Fox has always been the strongest asset of Wayne Enterprises. Thomas Wayne recognized this years ago and put him in charge. Bill Earle recognized this and sent him packing," Mr. Fredericks says matter-of-factly, "One of the biggest differences between Thomas and Bill: Thomas sought to hire people who were more intelligent than him; Bill sees those same people solely as competition."

"Mr. Fredericks, did you know Thomas Wayne personally?" I ask, curiously.

"I did. And please, call me Roger," Mr. Fredericks - Roger - replies enthusiastically, "Most people on the board over the age of fifty knew Thomas. Of course, I grew up with him so I pride myself on knowing him a bit better than most."

"Then you grew up here, in Gotham," I conclude, "I did as well. Though I didn't go to school here."

He laughs lightheartedly, "And I bet the Gotham of your time was significantly different than mine." Roger takes a moment to reflect, his mind lost in the past.

We walk up to the grand doorway and are shown in by a posh waiter with a very stern expression. The waiter escorts us into the dining room with a barely concealed derisive glance at my business casual sweater and slacks. I gladly sacrifice fashion for comfort, but in this establishment, comfort is disregarded. The seats appear to be plush. But I discover them to be stuffed so full as to be hard when I gracelessly drop into the chair offered by the waiter. I turn to continue my conversation with Roger Fredericks, only to be distracted by a jolting scene behind his head. Bruce and an anonymous brunette relax in a private corner table across the room. Unlike the Prince of Gotham's usual conquests, this woman has a sense of no-nonsense intelligence about her. She hold herself with classy poise, her long hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Bruce's animated gestures and eyes, lit in a way they never were when looking at me, suggest that this woman's name might be Rachel. The couple are so absorbed in each other they don't notice my brief stare.

Roger, however, does.

"Miss Pearl," he says, calling me back to attention, "Over there is Bruce Wayne, the de facto owner of Wayne Enterprises, with his long time friend Rachel Dawes. Have you had the privilege of meeting Mr. Wayne?"

"Only very briefly," I lie easily, "But I've read all about his…exploits…in the news."

Roger shakes his head in agreement, "Yes. Then you'll have heard about what happened on his birthday two nights ago."

"Actually, I was there. Unfortunately," I say, "Until he told all of his guests to leave, of course." I contrive to fix an offended look on my face, "Very unprofessional of him." Inside, I'm laughing.

"Indeed," Roger sympathizes, "I'm afraid with his father gone so early in his developing years Bruce Wayne lacks the knowledge of certain necessities such as good protocol and etiquette."

"I take it Thomas Wayne would never have allowed this to happen?" I ask. I cannot bring myself to agree with Mr. Frederick's assessment of Bruce's character. Fundamentally, Bruce embodies so much more than he lets on.

"Oh, Tom had his faults all right," Roger says, chuckling, "I can't recall the number of troublesome spots he got us into during our youth. But they were all good natured pranks. Harmless"

"Like what?" I ask, hoping to coax an entertaining story or two out of him. I slip a sketchbook out from my bag and begin to draw. For a moment I let myself become lost in the page. My mind measures the planes of Roger's face, dividing it into basic shapes. My hand travels swiftly across the white surface, leaving faint wisps of line. There is pure, unadulterated joy in being able to simply draw again.

Then with a basic outline complete, my thoughts refocus on Roger's words, and the details of the drawing begin to fall into place.

"…never went so far as to skip school completely," Roger is telling me, "I say completely because…well…I had a high school teacher who, once begun, would drone on for hours without interruption. Usually people fell asleep, did other homework, or just sat in a stupor. But not Tom. Tom got it into his head that if we could get out of class, he could join Martha in her lunch break an hour before ours. Thomas and Martha were high school sweethearts back then, you see.

"Well, Tom began planning for this escape for weeks. Until finally, on a sunny day perfect for eating lunch outside, he decided it was time to put the plan into action. Except, in the old days, even Tom's best laid plans had a habit of going awry. That day the professor had decided to forgo lecturing and instead chalk up examples on the blackboard, placing himself directly in between Tom and the door. This slight hitch didn't stop Tom. While the teacher was absorbed in his notes, Tom pried open the top most window, shoved his backpack tumbling to the ground, and slipped out after it. Those of us left behind in the classroom heard nothing but a thud, alerting us to the fact that Tom had gotten away. As for the teacher, he didn't bat an eye or pause for a second in his long winded explanations.

"An hour later Tom strolled through the classroom door, confident and calm as you please. The professor asked where Tom had been and Tom said, 'You gave me permission to use the restroom, sir.', and the teacher simply told him to sit down!"

Roger pauses in his story for a short burst of laughter. I chuckle along with him, starting a new sketch of his humorous smile.

"To this day, Tom remains a legend at Gotham High School."

"But clearly he grew out of the immaturity eventually."

"Most definitely. We parted ways after high school I came back a hardened business man, and he came back a doctor. Which his father never truly approved of, by the way. Thomas Wayne senior wanted Tom to follow in his footsteps and take up the reins of the family company. But Tom knew he wasn't suited to that cutthroat lifestyle."

"So he became a doctor instead," I say, "Good choice."

"The best in Gotham," Roger agrees, "He was a genius. It wasn't just medicine; he also enjoyed science, math, basically anything technical."

My grin broadens into a wide smile. Thomas Wayne's success in science explains where Bruce gets his own numerous talents.

"Thomas Wayne was Gotham's hero for a long time. He may not have physically fought crime like some of our so revered vigilante-heroes today, but he did his part," Roger continues.

"You don't think Batman is a hero in his own right?" I ask.

"Not in the same way. There are similarities. Both show a deep, underlying need to save people, which I think is very basic to a hero mentality. I can't speak for Batman, obviously, but I know Tom's drive came from the many health issues he had as a kid."

"So perhaps Batman suffered from some kind of trauma," I say.

My words trigger a connection heretofore unnoticed in my mind. Bruce told me the story of his disappearance and the origin of the bat costume, but he neglected to confide the motivation behind his actions. The violent death of one's own parents definitely falls under the category of traumatic experiences.

"Bruce Wayne witnessed his own parents murder," Roger goes on to say, ignoring my batman comment yet coincidentally answering it, "He was a disturbed kid when he was younger. Something like that changes you, and not in a positive way. Consider his reaction: to burry his grief in his millions. Bruce, I'm afraid, is not as strong as Thomas."

"You believe people should channel their grief in a positive way," I suggest. I sneak a glance in the direction of Bruce and Rachel Dawes. The two are getting up to leave. Bruce's eyes briefly pass across the room when he stands. I turn to Roger, imagining Bruce's gaze lingering on me, but when I look back, he's gone.

"Money, violence - these things are negative," Roger is saying.

"But if the outcomes are positive…" I protest.

"You believe that's what Batman is doing? That he's achieving some goal?"

"I do believe that his work is…beneficial."

"Perhaps," Roger concedes, "One's opinion of Batman must hang on the fine line drawn between what becomes justice, and what becomes a personal vendetta."

I laugh. "Is all revenge justice, or is all justice revenge?" I ask jokingly.

"And can anyone find the perfect balance of the two? Yes that is a rather loaded question."

"Personally, I think revenge is overrated," I say, "But then I've never really felt the need."

"Not even against Carmine Falcone?"

I consider it briefly.

"No," I say lightly, "I'm too passive for direct revenge."

Roger starts to say something else but the waiter interrupts him with steaming plates full of an unidentifiable food substance. Roger must have ordered for me when I wasn't paying attention.

"Looks delicious," I lie with an overstretched smile, cursing the pickiness that prevents me from enjoying gourmet meals.

"Indeed," Roger says, immediately digging in. I quickly follow suit. The food is good, probably the best I've had for lunch in weeks, but I find myself staring wistfully out the window my favorite sandwich café across the street.

Thankfully during the meal our conversation progresses to lighter topics than death and revenge. Roger continues to regale me with tales of Tom and his exploits during school. The lunch overall is entertaining enough, but when we finish an hour into my break, I'm thankful to get back to my secluded filing cabinets.

Unfortunately Mary waves me over to her desk the minute I step back into the building. I say goodbye to Roger Fredericks, thanking him for accompanying me to lunch, and walk up to the receptionist counter.

"I received this message for you," She says, handing over an envelope.

The half sticky seam has obviously been tampered with.

"You opened it?" I accuse.

"Company policy," Mary says, shrugging.

"Not true," I argue, but let it slide. I pull out the neon orange slip of paper and read the concise message:

'No need to take the train home today. Meet me across the street from where we had lunch. -O.H.G.'

"How many guys do you have, anyway?" Mary asks, "And who's O.H.G? There's no one with those initials at Wayne Enterprises. Trust me, I checked."

"Honestly, I'm stumped too," I say, crumpling up the page. I assume it's from Bruce using a somewhat odd alias. I stare at the orange wad of paper.

Orange…Orange Hoodie Guy.

Very cute, Bruce.

"Never mind," I say, "I know who it is. Thanks for the message." I spin around and walk to the elevators, trying desperately to hide my excitement.

"Who?" Mary calls, always needing to get in the last word.

I shake my head at her, but my stupid smile betrays me.

The last four hours of my day are agonizingly long. I file company reports and attempt to make some progress on my personal research project, but my attention span refuses to cooperate. Finally the computer clock clicks past the sixty second mark and the display changes to 5:00. I toss my belongings back in my bag, along with copies of all the files on my father, and navigate through the maze to the back stairwell. Smirking to myself, I wonder how long Mary will wait overtime at her desk for me to come out of the elevator with the mysterious OHG. I shove the heavy alley door open and emerge in the loading dock area of Wayne Tower. Two blocks later I'm standing in front of the sign for my favorite lunch spot and searching for an orange hood. There are a couple people loitering at the sidewalk tables, a guy in a motorcycle helmet leaning casually against his parking meter, a business woman strolling by on a cell phone, and Rose across the street on her way home from the library. She stops when she sees me and waves emphatically over the passing cars. She motions towards the crosswalk a block away.

Could Rose be OHG after all?

I'm about to head in the direction of the crosswalk when the motorcycle driver starts walking towards me.

"Lyn, it's me. No need to look so scared," he says, holding out an extra motorcycle helmet. I can hear the laughter in Bruce's voice. I glance past the helmet and see a little bit of orange hood sticking out.

My wide-eyed expression doesn't change.

"There's no way you're getting me on the back of that…thing," I say, stepping back.

"You don't like motorcycles?" Bruce asks, sounding wounded.

"Admiring them from afar is fine. I'd just rather not get up close."

"It's perfectly safe, come on," he says. Bruce dumps the helmet into my arms and turns back to his motorbike.

I hesitate, my irrational fears protesting loudly inside me. But holding the helmet feels a lot like holding Bruce's mask, and a part of me itches to put the helmet on. I glance behind me at Rose who has just starting crossing the street.

Batboy or Rose, who should I choose?

"Lyn," Bruce tries to get my attention, already on the motorcycle and ready to go.

With one word, all sense of reason and logic fly out of my thoughts. I pull the helmet on and, feeling a bit silly, step up to the bike. I look at Bruce questioningly.

"How long have you been riding motorcycles?" I ask.

"Since I was 16."

"And you're pretty good at it, even after seven years?"

"I promise I won't let you get hurt."

"Why couldn't we avoid this altogether and have Alfred pick us up?"

My unspoken question being, 'do you not want to be seen with me?'

"I haven't been intentionally avoiding you all day," Bruce says, picking up on the subtle accusation in my voice, "My job isn't in Applied Sciences anymore. Daily visits to the Archives might draw unnecessary attention."

In other words, it would seem uncharacteristic for the majority shareholder of Wayne Enterprises to befriend a lowly archivist.

"I understand," I say, "But I won't pretend to not be disappointed. Your visits enlivened my otherwise drab day." My tone borders on sarcasm; I don't want to seem too desperate to see him more often.

I'm rewarded with a hint of a smile underneath his helmet.

"Get on before your friend over there reaches us and starts asking questions," Bruce suggests, nodding in the direction of Rose, "Use the footpeg as a step."

Using his shoulder for balance I step onto the peg and swing my leg over. I settle on the seat behind him, tentatively placing my hands on his waist, reluctantly thinking of Rachel Dawes.

"Tap once on my shoulder if you want me to go slower, tap twice if you need to stop, and three times if it's urgent," Bruce informs me, passing back extra riding gloves.

I put them on. They fit perfectly. Clearly Bruce has needed women's sized gloves before.

"Ready?" Bruce asks over his shoulder.

I nod, bonking my helmet into his.

"Try not to do that," he advises, laughter in his voice.

I wince and mutter, "I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

"Hold on," Bruce says with an excitement I don't share.

He steers out of the parking spot and into the road. We pass by a very confused looking Rose who swivels on the sidewalk, staring after us. Feeling more relaxed, I laugh softly, watching Rose fade into the distance.

Then we take the first turn.

And the bike tilts.

My breath catches and I involuntarily tighten my hold around Bruce's waist. No more worries about seeming too forward, I'm holding on for dear life, now.

Bruce comes out of the turn and speeds up, weaving in and out of cars with ease. My nerves are on end with every corner we take. The busy bustle of the city is distracting, overwhelming. At a stoplight I attempt to ask Bruce where we're headed, but can't seem to force the words out. Thankfully, within minutes we're out of the city and on a back road. Assuming we're on the way to the ruins of Wayne Manor, I plan for a long ride and try relax the tension in my muscles. As the motorcycle whizzes around lazy curves, I begin to feel my body instinctively reacting to the motion of the bike. I release my rigid grip on Bruce's waist and let my hands rest comfortably on his hips. The rushing wind and constant speed puts me at ease. Focusing on matching the movement of the motorcycle leaves my mind free of worries, and free to take in the canopy of trees and expanse of fields surrounding the roads. Who knew Gotham was surrounded by such pretty countryside.

My face breaks into a wide smile.

Bruce takes us along winding roads with tight turns and hills that are exhilarating and terrifying. We pass through the outskirts of Gotham, and through the occasional abandoned small town left over from when the city was at the height of it's wealth. The boarded up shops and homes are beautiful in their own way. The history surrounding the buildings builds up an intriguing mystery underneath the overgrown lawns, the peeling paint, and even the missing side wall on one row house.

Eventually we hit the coastline. The road clings desperately to the hills along the water. I squint in the last bit of sunlight coming across the ocean. In the distance I can see the Gotham City skyline. The gigantic gantry cranes stand out amongst the sky scrapers in rows along the dock. Bruce speeds onto the main bridge into this side of Gotham, dodging cars on the freeway as if it was a game. To my surprise he takes the exit for the shipyards. We drive past countless streets of the shipping section before turning into one forgotten looking area.

Bruce doesn't slow down.

The container directly in front of us looms closer and closer. I squeeze my eyes shut briefly, scared stiff. Unwilling to let go in order to tap his shoulder I pat him desperately on the side multiple times. I get no reaction. In the next second Bruce pushes a button and the front side of the container rumbles open as if it was a garage door. The motorcycle skids to a stop in the half-lit container. The sudden braking throws me up against Bruce's back and our helmets collide again. I'm half laughing, half wincing in pain when the entire platform underneath us gives a violent shudder and begins to smoothly descend. For a moment we're plunged into darkness. Then blinded with a bluish light.

The container floor melds into the ground of an extensive basement, lit with ceiling to ceiling fluorescent bulbs. Littered throughout the dirty room is an odd assortment of junk, all shapes and sizes.

"Where are we?" I ask through my helmet.

"An underground drug smuggling cache," Bruce says, "Batcave Two: The Bat-bunker"

Laughing, I clumsily swing my leg off the motorcycle and stumble onto the floor. Bruce gracefully dismounts after me, casually pulling his helmet off in the process. I stand with my helmet still on, pausing to admire Bruce's ruffled brown hair.

"Nice coiffure," I tease, "What were style you going for, bird?" I smile and tug my own helmet off.

"Don't comment until you get a look at yourself," Bruce says, raising an eyebrow at my own helmet hair. He wheels the bike into an alcove. I hand him my helmet and attempt to stretch my legs. Muscles I normally don't use are protesting the motorcycle ride.

"So what did you think?" Bruce asks, returning from the alcove empty handed. He touches a spot on the wall and the alcove slides closed.

"Most amazing experience ever," I gush.

"You changed your mind about motorcycles then," Bruce says, his eyes gleaming with humor.

"I suppose I have," I say.

"I find it relaxing."

"I can see why. Did you take the scenic route for a reason, or just for fun?"

"I needed to avoid traffic," he says, his face taking on the mocking look he gets when he lies.

"You seemed to avoid traffic pretty well by charting your own lanes in between cars," I argue.

He smirks lazily at me, "Okay…the truth? We had to lose someone tracking our vehicle. It was a Batman thing, you wouldn't understand."

"Oh I see," I say, going along with his story, "We had to lose someone. Makes complete sense."

He laughs and turns to go farther into the basement. Gesturing for me to follow he says, "Come on, I'll show you around."

"What is this place, exactly? How did you build…or find it…so fast?" I ask.

"Drug traffickers used it back before Falcone gained a monopoly over the mob's trade. Luckily for me, it's been out of use for some time now. Quite a bit of the leftover trash stuck around, however," he picks up an empty crate and tosses it into a staggering heap of junk with disgust, "Alfred and I have been working to clean everything up but it'll take some time."

He leads me over to a patch of empty floor.

"However, the Bat-bunker does have it's perks," Bruce says proudly, "Watch." he steps lightly on one of the cement blocks. For a minute I wonder if Batboy has finally driven Bruce crazy. Then the concrete slab slides away as a metal structure sprouts from the ground. Arranged across the racks rests the batsuit with the cowl facing us in a hollow stare.

"Wow, I'm impressed," I say, "A disappearing container-elevator, secret storage space, and a handy batsuit holder."

"What once kept the drug trafficking secrets will now keep mine," Bruce says seriously, his face darkening.

"With Falcone gone, though, do you think the previous owners could return?"

"Alfred took care of that with surveillance cameras," Bruce says, pointing to a complex computer system at the opposite end of the basement.

"Nice," I say, smiling. Bruce walks over to the computers and begins to turn them on.

"Where will the medical center go?" I ask.

"Medical center?"

"For the next time you take a knife wound to the gut. It would be a lot easier to patch you up if I had the right supplies."

"Next time?" Bruce asks in return, raising his eyebrows.

"I'm sure there will be one. Obviously you don't intend on retiring anytime soon," I say, gesturing around the room.

"And you'll be there to 'patch me up'?" he asks.

"Of course," I say defensively, "Aren't you lucky I have no social life."

"No," he says simply, "I refuse."

"I don't think you have a choice in the matter," I say, sinking into the nearest chair, "I know your secret identity now. Not to mention the location of the 'Bat-bunker'. Why else would you bring me here, Batboy?"

Bruce remains quiet, not even reacting to my 'Batboy' comment.

"Why did you bring me here?" I ask, studying him.

"I don't know," Bruce says quietly. He settles into the desk chair, turning his attention to the computers.

I give him some time to work and get up to explore the basement. Most of the garbage is unidentifiable. One corner contains a scummy sink and cluttered countertop.

"This will do wonderfully," I say, "Once every bit of it is disinfected."

He looks over at me, "You're serious about this?"

"I don't joke," I say, returning to the computer desk, "Well, I do. But usually it's sarcasm."

He grins.

"It is hard to treat cuts on my own back," he concedes and turns back to the computer.

I smile broadly, wandering off deeper into the room in search of cleaning supplies. Amidst the crowded trash in the middle of the room rests the Tumbler.

"But don't expect another raise. I pay Alfred enough as it is," Bruce calls after me.

"Which probably is not nearly enough," I retort, lifting rags, anti-bacterial soap, and a large bucket out of the Tumbler's storage space.

"Technically Alfred owns everything," Bruce tells me, "Legally I'm still dead. The mayor's been looking into getting that fixed."

"So when will you become part of the living again?" I ask jokingly.

"My people are planning a born again party at the penthouse for me this Saturday," Bruce says, "The invitations specifically state fire will not be involved." He smirks mischievously.

"Another party so soon after the first destroyed your house?" I question his logic, "Though statistically speaking, I suppose the probability of you burning down your second home is miniscule."

"I'll visibly abstain from drinking."

"Visibly?"

"You know, turn it into a joke," Bruce says, "Make it clear I'm cutting myself off."

"Personally I don't drink, but I can imagine refusing any alcohol during a party situation could be difficult for you," I say.

"I haven't had a drink in seven years," Bruce confides.

"Was that a vow?" I ask, shocked.

"In a way."

"And yet you carry around a full glass at every gala you host."

"Club soda."

I laugh in surprise.

"Alfred's even switched the bottles before," Bruce tells me, smiling.

"I believe that," I say, "And no one has ever caught on to this game of yours?"

"Never."

"You act the drunken idiot very well."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"And what's your act, Lyn?" Bruce asks, watching me slyly out of the corner of his eye.

"I don't have an act," I say, "I'm strictly my own personality."

"Everyone pus on an act sometimes," Bruce protests.

"Well, I don't."

Bruce gives me a look.

"What?" I ask.

"Is being an 'artist' not an act?"

"That's different," I argue, "'Artistic' is a characteristic."

"'Playboy' is a characteristic."

"But not one of yours…"

"No?" he asks, sounding skeptical.

"I don't think so," I reply.

"Can someone act convincingly if the character isn't somewhat a part of themselves?"

"I believe so, yes," I say.

"Have you ever tried to be someone you're not?"

"I'm no actor."

"Neither am I."

"Are you trying to convince me you're a playboy?" I retort.

"And a bat."

"A hero."

My last comment sends Bruce into a thoughtful silence. Suddenly the room seems confining and small. I turn away to look at the Tumbler, looming conspicuously behind us; the elephant in the room no one wants to discuss.

"Is that what I am?" Bruce asks, "Is what I'm doing right? Or merely causing more problems."

"I know one sandwich vendor whose life you changed for the better in a single night," I tell him, "In my book, you're a hero."

Bruce smiles wryly, "What have I done for you other than introduce more danger into your life?

"Life's been a lot more exciting since I met you."

"I refuse to drag you into this."

"First off, I'm joining willingly. Secondly, you need someone else who knows your secret identity to help keep you sane. And thirdly, anyone who can save Gotham and be polite to insane inmates at the same time deserves the title of hero."

"You saw Summer Gleason's interview."

"I did," I say, "What caused this new twist of self-doubt anyway, Bruce?"

"Something a friend said."

"Oh," I say, my voice a little too knowing than it should have been.

Rachel Dawes must not approve of Batboy.

Bruce gives me an odd look.

"I know how it feels to have friends…disapprove of one's actions," I invent to hide my slip up.

"You've heard about the death of the District Attorney?" Bruce asks, his face expressionless.

"Of course," I confirm.

"My friend I've been telling you about, Rachel Dawes, is - was - the District Attorney's executive assistant."

"Losing your boss must be hard," I say, "A large mess to clean up, certainly."

Bruce shakes his head, "You don't understand. She's being asked to temporarily take up command until an election can be held to determine the new DA."

"And you're worried she'll get hurt," I say.

"Rachel's even brought up the possibility of running for the position herself."

"I think the question then, would be whether or not she'd make a good District Attorney," I say sternly, "Instead of whether or not she's setting herself up as the new target."

"But that's what will happen," Bruce says, frustration and defeat in his voice, "I can't constantly be there to protect her. Being District Attorney has become tantamount to a death sentence in Gotham."

"Alfred can't stop you from doing stupid things like getting sprayed with poison or burning your mansion down, and yet he makes no attempt to prevent you from going out as Batboy each night."

"Once again, that's different."

"How so?"

"I can protect myself."

"Can you? If I hadn't been there to clean your wound, could you have gone back to Gotham Sunday night?"

"I would have managed somehow."

"Bruce, you were bleeding uncontrollably from a knife wound to the abdomen. While not a fatal injury, it would have been extremely uncomfortable under your suit untreated," I say wryly.

"I've dealt with more serious injuries on my own," Bruce says defensively.

"I'm sure you have," I say, skeptically, "Which doesn't change the fact that you can't protect people constantly. If this Rachel Dawes wants to be Gotham City's District Attorney - an admirable goal for sure - then there is nothing you can do except support her, or offer your opinion and hope she considers it. I highly doubt you can force her to change her mind."

Bruce buries his head in his hands. My initial reflex is to start forward to put a comforting hand on his shoulder, but before I get there he places his hand down on the table and pushes himself up from the chair.

"We're not just talking about Rachel, are we?" he asks with his back towards me.

We stand in silence for a few moments.

"I can help, Bruce, if you'll let me," I confess quietly.

"And how will we keep it secret?" Bruce asks. He turns around with an sardonic smile on his face.

"I can stay overnight here," I say, "No one would ever guess."

"Where are you staying now?" Bruce questions, "Not in the narrows, I hope."

"No," I say sharply, "I'm…avoiding that area for a while. No, I'm staying with Chad."

"Chad?" Bruce asks incredulously, "And if he becomes suspicious?"

"I'll tell him I'm over at Eleanor's," I say, "A long time ago I slept at her place a lot. She's sort of who I go to during hard times…Chad will understand."

"Who's Eleanor?"

"An elderly family friend who runs a used bookstore down the street from the library. She's a bit of a night owl and hosts these late night knitting sessions that sometimes last till the wee hours of the morning. I'll just say I'm going to the sessions again."

"Late night crafting sessions?" Bruce asks, on the verge of laughter despite himself.

"These are dedicated knitters."

"And what will you tell Eleanor?"

"The truth."

My comment catches Bruce's attention. He stares down at me in shock.

"Not the truth-truth," I say, "But a version of it. I'll simply say I've found a new guy and haven't told Chad yet. Eleanor loves scandal, she'll eat it up."

"Knitting and scandal. Sounds like a pleasant woman," Bruce says.

"She's lovely," I exclaim, "A real character." I babble about the eccentric traits of Eleanor Hatter while Bruce stands in thoughtful silence. I invent a couple outlandish stories to see if he's paying attention. The lack of reaction proves I'm rambling to empty ears.

"Well," Bruce says finally, sighing heavily, "You thought things through. Maybe this will work."

Excitement surges through me, bringing a smile to my lips. I feel as if I'm really a part of something - a resistance. A secret resistance.

"But I refuse to place you in unnecessary danger," Bruce says seriously, "You'll start by acting as a resource in the Archives, and…well…a medical assistant."

"Agreed," I say, holding out my hand.

After a few minutes he takes it, sadly and hesitantly, and we shake hands.

But then neither of us let go.

A frazzled, crackling noise breaks through our shared contemplation. The police radio hooked up to the desk turns on and a harried voice comes on over the static. Bruce unceremoniously drops my hand and bends over the radio, trying to get a better signal. I hover behind him, feeling anxious with anticipation.

"All available units create a perimeter around Arkham Asylum and the narrows. The security system has shut down and inmates are escaping."

Bruce strides over to the secret Batsuit rack and steps on the tile. As he transforms into Batboy, I remain at the desk, listening to the rest of the report.

"The escape seems to have been orchestrated from within the asylum," I say as Batboy comes up behind me, "Using, of all things, Summer Gleason's cell phone pilfered by the same inmate who chose to stay in captivity after you blew a hole in his wall."

"Which one?" Batboy asks, sounding guttural and harsh. Chills run down my back at hearing his assumed voice close up, even while the sound half makes me want to giggle.

"Jacob Freely, the electronics and explosives expert," I say, "He must be good if he could stop the entire security system using a cell phone." A small part of me admires the guy's tenacity. The very, very small, rebellious part of me I've been trying to squash.

"Not stop the security system," Batboy says, "If he stopped it, a lockdown would result. He reversed it."

"How?"

"I don't know," Batboy admits.

"He did say he didn't want to be upstaged by Batboy," I say, grinning.

Bruce's mouth folds into a grim frown at the mention of his hated nickname.

"He's about to be," Batboy growls.

I laugh as Batboy stalks over to the Tumbler. He gets in, but before closing the hath he looks back at me in question.

"I'll be here waiting," I assure him.

Without saying anything more he starts the engine and drives towards the opposite end of the room. As if by magic the wall farthest from the lift entrance opens without a sound. The entire concrete block retracts into the left wall. Beyond lies the ocean. I watch in astonishment as the Tumbler navigates around the corner and onto a ledge jutting out across the water. Running after the Tumbler, I skitter to a stop, teetering on the edge. The sharp wind teases my hair out of it's clumsy bun and I stand there, staring after Batboy until the vehicle disappears from view.

Once he's gone I examine my surroundings. The secret bunker seems to be cut into one of the cliff faces along the water. What probably started as a natural cave formation was expanded and built on to make this secret hideaway. Feeling worried over Bruce, but proud, I return inside to wait.

A voice coming from the computer keeps repeating Bruce's name.

"Hello?" I ask the computer, feeling foolish talking to electronics.

"Lyn, good to hear from you," Alfred says, "Is Master Wayne there?"

"He just left in the Tumbler," I reply, "Arkham Asylum is running into some trouble."

"I'm aware of the report," Alfred says, "I was checking to make sure Master Wayne heard it."

"He did," I say simply.

"Where are you?" Alfred asks.

"The Bat-bunker," I reply, "Bruce brought me for a tour."

"May I request that you continue my progress on cleaning while you wait?"

"Of course," I say, "Where would you like me to start?"

"I believe the garbage in the Southwest corner remains unsorted."

I glance at the corner to see a huge pile of junk. "Yup," I say, "It's pretty gigantic."

"At the front of the room you'll find garbage and recycling bins. The black is garbage, the second is for aggregates and concrete; third, batteries; fourth, biodegradable waste; fifth, electronics; sixth, ferrous metals; seventh, non-ferrous metals; eighth, red glass; ninth clear glass; tenth, green glass; eleventh, timber; and the last one is paper."

"You'll have to repeat that," I tell him, pulling out my sketchbook and pen. As he dictates the correct trash receptacles again, I head over to the front of the room and peer inside the large bins I had not noticed earlier.

"And what is the huge bin at the very end?" I ask, when Alfred finishes reciting the labels.

"My apologies," Alfred says, "My memory momentarily failed me. That bin is for plastics."

"Plastics?" I ask, "But, Alfred, there are six different subdivisions."

"One for each specific type of plastic," Alfred says, "You'll find a categorized list among the cleaning supplies in the Tumbler."

I return to the desk where I left the supplies and lift a three page long list detailing the types of plastic belonging in each subdivision.

"Do you think I'll be able to finish cleaning in this lifetime?" I ask Alfred.

"I will be along to help you in about an hour," Alfred says, "I merely need to finish the 18h hole here, and then I shall be on my way."

"You're golfing?" I ask, grinning.

"I am taking a paid mini-vacation at the Palisades Country Club, yes."

Laughing, I tell Alfred I look forward to working with him soon, and hang up.

Then I take a good look at the sheer amount of debris collected over time.

And realize the agonizing amount of time cleanup is going to take.

Half an hour into sorting and dumping I'm sore, tired, and hoping to be relieved of my duty soon. Just as I'm ready to give up and take a break the crack in the ceiling opens up once again and descends to the floor, revealing a very refreshed Alfred.

He smiles at me and my efforts when he sees the Southwest corner. I've made a fairly significant dent in the trash. After pulling on work gloves and rolling up his sleeves, Alfred joins me in the work.

"It's not exactly the most important or influential job, but I figure every little bit counts," I say, conversationally as we labor on.

"Sometimes the most unimportant jobs are the most rewarding," Alfred says, sorting through a stack of unidentifiable plastics I had compiled within minutes - like a human computer.

"I suppose it's sort of like filing. Except with large, bulky items and misleading labels which seem to be trying to hide rather than having nice, neat, printed headings," I say, turning a metal piece round and round to figure out what it is.

Alfred chuckles lightly, plucks the metal piece out of my hands, judges it expertly, and plunks it down in the non-ferrous metals category.

"I can file data within minutes," I say, "But ask me to identify a metal and I'm lost."

"Live with Master Wayne for a few decades and you'll begin to identify metals while dreaming," Alfred says deadpan.

"Was he always so interested in hands on construction stuff like this?"

"Oh yes," Alfred says, smiling.

"I took a 3D media studio in college as part of my art minor. I failed welding horribly."

"Small metals, like jewelry welding are much more delicate and interesting," Alfred tells me.

"Oh I did that too. And failed nonetheless."

We work in silence for another hour.

Exhausted and feeling a bit more daring than I otherwise would, I decide to ask Alfred the question that's been nagging me since my lunch with Mr. Fredericks.

"Alfred," I start, "Is all this…this Batboy business…driven by revenge?"

Alfred stops sorting, straightens up, and looks at me.

"Only Master Wayne could tell you the answer to that," he says plaintively.

I nod, "I thought so…but I just…it couldn't hurt asking."

Alfred nods along with me, "Perhaps it's time we took a break."

I toss the work gloves onto the pile of cleaning supplies and stagger over to one of the large, cushy chairs. Sinking into it, my head barely hits the backrest before I'm in a state of stupor.

"I think I'll just let my eyes take a short vacation…" I say, and drift into a deep sleep.

My last memory is of Alfred calmly placing a blanket over me before turning back to his work.


	12. Week 2:Wednesday

12 : Disclaimer: Don't own anything related to the DC Universe

A dark shadow looms over me, blocking the piercing bright light. Startled, my mind and body snaps to alert on its own. I begin to scramble to my feet but a cold glove pushes me back down into the chair.

"Don't bother," the figure grumbles, darkly, "I'm fine."

"What happened?" I ask, watching Bruce's head emerge from the cowl, scooting to the edge of my seat, torn between staying put and going to him.

He shakes his hair out of his eyes, "Freely got away," he growls, "The inmates disappeared. Arkham Asylum is completely empty…again."

"No prisoners left…"

"None."

Bruce triggers the bat-costume vault a little more forcefully than necessary. I turn my back to him, curling into the chair. Checking the time on my watch I discover that it is 2:30 in the morning.

"If you caught no one, what did you do for four hours?" I question.

"Searched."

The hidden alcove opens behind me with its customary grinding screech. I push myself around again in time for Bruce to dump a motorcycle helmet in my lap.

"You're kidding," I say, "Couldn't we just take the tumbler?"

"I think people would notice the Tumbler parked outside the Wayne Foundation building," Bruce answers, deadpan.

"You could say Batboy donated it."

Reluctantly, I slip the helmet on and join Bruce alongside the bike. I pause before swinging up behind him.

"You're not hurt…at all?" I ask to reassure myself.

"I'm fine."

"Okay," I say defensively, "But don't pretend that you never let bruises or cuts slide by unnoticed."

"Sorry. Tonight was…frustrating…and futile."

"These are Gotham's most wanted criminals, Bruce. Not a single one of them could walk the streets unnoticed. Maybe it's time you had some faith in Gotham itself. Wait for the reports and sightings to come in. Then, after you have leads, go after the criminals where they think they're safe."

"I have faith in Gotham." His voice has a sulky note in it and I struggle not to smile.

"I didn't mean it as an accusation…more of an affirmation. But. the fact that you picked out that single point from what I said tells me perhaps you're not being completely honest with yourself."

I settle onto the back of the motorcycle, my hands automatically finding their place around Bruce. All prior feelings of discomfort and apprehension about the motorcycle are gone.

"Or perhaps I already have a plan to catch the scum like Freely," Bruce counters.

I laugh lightly as the container garage door rumbles open and Bruce starts the engine. We shoot out into the night in a blur.

The ride home takes no more than a few minutes, much shorter than the ride out of the city. In spite of my drowsiness, I find myself wishing we could continue on forever. Leave Gotham city behind in our dust. I have no financial or familial connections here - I could start fresh, somewhere else. And Bruce has so much money; he could probably escape to just about anywhere and be set for life.

So what holds us back? Certainly not a love of Gotham.

I direct Bruce towards Eleanor's shop. Surprisingly the front room windows are dark. Slipping off the back of the motorcycle, I hand my helmet back to Bruce, thanking him.

"For what?"

"For trusting me. For letting me stay."

"You're welcome," he says, giving me a thin smile.

I turn to go.

"Lyn,"

I glance back in question.

"I expect to see you back tomorrow."

I nod once, grinning. In response Bruce pulls around the corner of the block. I climb the steps to Eleanor's door and rap loudly on the knocker. Minutes later a light flickers on and the old woman's face appears in the window. She catches sight of me and throws open the door.

"For heavens sake, Lyn!" Eleanor exclaims, "I haven't seen you smile like that in years! Come to think of it, I haven't seen you in years period."

"It's only been a few weeks," I protest.

"Feels like years compared to how often I used to see your face before. I used to have to chase you out of here," she takes a deep breath, "A lot has happened in a short time. I'm sure you've hard of my encounter with some young hooligans."

"Rose told me. Honestly I meant to come see you sooner but…"

"Come upstairs," Eleanor directs and begins to stiffly climb the spiral staircase up to the second floor. I follow meekly, desperately trying to avoid accidentally kicking over the stacks of books surrounding the stairs. Once in her loft, Eleanor yanks the chain on the ceiling light, casting a yellow glow on her tiny kitchen. I set my bag down on the table and fully intend on falling into a deep sleep on the couch. Eleanor has other ideas.

She lowers herself into a chair at the kitchen table and fixes me with a knowing stare.

"Sit down," Eleanor orders, "And explain yourself."

"There's really nothing to explain…"

An eyebrow lifts, but otherwise Eleanor's expression remains the same.

"Okay, maybe I've been having some…complications in my life lately," I submit to the stare and pull up a seat, "I had to move out of the narrows."

"Finally!" Eleanor exclaims, throwing up her hands in exasperation, "I've been advocating that for years."

"Well, the recent events made it necessary."

"Meaning the strange smog that infected the area Sunday night?"

"The strange smog…the mob's unexpected interest in me…Salvatore Maroni's threat…"

"Stop," Eleanor holds out a hand emphatically, "Go back to the beginning."

"I can't tell you everything," I object, but subside when she gives me a dark, narrow-eyed stare, "Basically I stayed late with a...friend…and I don't want Chad to know."

The omniscient stare continues.

"And…hypothetically my friend could be helping me out with some of these issues."

More staring.

"Which could be part of a secret plan to save Gotham which necessitates hidden identities…and lies…and more secrets…and would you please stop looking at me like that? I'm tired, and I can't hold out for long under your scrutiny even when I'm wide awake."

Eleanor just smiles.

An hour later I've spilled the entire story: Bruce Wayne, Batman, Maroni, and all.

"And Bruce will probably never speak to me again if he finds out I told you all this," I conclude, looking up at Eleanor pleadingly.

"We're women, dear, we need to talk," Eleanor says, "Men would too if they knew what was good for them. But they don't, so they keep it all bottled up until they explode."

"Or decide to wreck vengeance on an entire city of criminals."

"Don't you feel better now that you know you have my unwavering love and support? I promise I won't say a word, even though this could be the scandal of the year."

"I do feel better."

"Not that anyone would believe me if I did decide to talk; no one truly listens to my rumors. They just laugh it off, and nod, and smile, and think 'there goes Eleanor, crazy old knitting lady.'."

I laugh and push myself away from the table. "Just wake me when it's morning."

Unfortunately, rather than waking to Eleanor's gentle prodding, my cell phone goes off right next to my head. My hand shoots out, snatches up the phone, and flicks it open to see who is calling. It's a number the cell doesn't recognize.

"Hello?" I ask groggily.

"Good afternoon, Miss Lyn," Alfred's pleasant voice says, "Master Wayne has requested that I inquire why you are not at work today."

"Why I'm not in…what time is it?" I ask.

"Around noon, I'm afraid."

I scramble to my feet in surprise, "I overslept! I'll be there…just give me a few minutes."

"Of course, Miss Lyn," Alfred intones.

"This won't happen again, I promise. I only need to get used to the new schedule. I'll be fine by tomorrow."

"As you say, Miss Lyn. I'll leave you to getting ready now."

"Of course, bye Alfred."

"Good day."

I hang up the phone and find a clean set of clothes sitting patiently on the ottoman in front of me. Eleanor knew I was sleeping late. Feeling frustrated, I pull myself together in record time and run downstairs to the bookshop to confront my well-intentioned but sabotaging hostess.

"Eleanor, I asked you to wake me up!" I say, interrupting her knitting behind the counter.

"I believe the exact time you mentioned was 'morning'. It is morning now, I was just about to go get you up."

"Maybe for night-owls like you, but my job started six hours ago. I could be fired over this…and I don't mean at Wayne Enterprises."

"The bat won't take you back? Don't worry dearie, he needs you."

"I may or may not be back tonight," I warn her, "Don't wait up."

"I'll be up anyway, I have a friend coming over."

"That's nice. Good day, Eleanor."

"Good day? What are you, some kind of…"

I never do find out what I am, stepping out the door and dragging it shut on Eleanor's words.

At Wayne tower Mary greets me with an announcement.

"Mr. Fox would like to see you in his office," she says, raising a manicured eyebrow at my slightly disheveled appearance, "Can I ask what you were doing last night?"

"You can, but I have no time to answer," I respond cryptically, heading directly for the elevator. Unfortunately I run into Chad as he's coming out.

"Lyn, where were you last night?" are the first words out of his mouth.

"No time to explain, I have to see Mr. Fox," I say, jabbing the door close button.

On the top floor, Jessica is mysteriously absent from her usual place behind the secretary's desk. I ease open the door to Fox's office and cautiously step in.

"Mr. Fox?" I ask, peering inquiringly at the wingback desk chair.

Which promptly swivels around to reveal a very polished looking Bruce Wayne in a suit and tie, wearing his usual smug billionaire grin.

"Clearly you function better than I do on zero hours of sleep," I say.

"Is that your excuse for being late today?" He scrunches his eyebrows together in mock concern, "You couldn't think of anything more exciting?"

"I'm afraid I'm so tired my creativity has been completely drained," my tone is borderline sarcastic. I change tactics, however, when I realize I might sound resentful of being kept awake. "I'm not complaining or anything, though. It's a good sort of tired. I'll just need time to adjust."

"Seriously, though, I got you back by three. I've been out much later than that before."

"Yes, well, I may have been kept awake a little longer after that."

"Oh?"

"Talking to Eleanor…"

Bruce abruptly stands, watches me silently for a few minutes, and goes to stare out the window.

"I had to…"

"Maybe we need to rethink all this," Bruce interrupts, facing me with an expression of disappointment.

"Have you ever lied to Alfred?"

Bruce is momentarily taken aback by my question.

"I believe it's rather apparent I've never…never lied to Alfred," he replies.

"Just as I've never lied to Eleanor…we can trust her, Bruce. I promise."

He leaves me hanging there, hovering in front of his desk and holding my breath over his reaction.

"Go back to your job, Lyn."

I nod silently and turn to leave. But I only make it to the door before I come up with an idea to get myself back in his good graces.

"Bruce?" I ask, smiling slightly, "How would you like to take the 'behind the scenes' tour of Wayne Tower?"

"I certainly hope I'm aware of all the secrets of my father's company," he says skeptically.

"Of the company, yes, but not of the building itself."

"Name one."

"I'll do better. Follow me."

I lead him past the secretary's desk and through the double doors of the boardroom. Bruce strides in behind me, looking skeptical. With grand gesturing I sweep forward and pluck out a book from the floor to ceiling bookcases along the walls. I hand the book to Bruce gingerly. Taking it, Bruce turns it over and over, examining it from every angle before tossing it lightly onto the table.

"The unabridged autobiography of my grandfather whose life was so boring only he would write - or read - about it. What significance could such a great waste of paper possibly have?"

"Just wait for it," my mischievous grin widens.

Bruce slips his hands in his pockets and nonchalantly tips his head back impatiently.

"I'm a busy man…how long will this take?"

In the middle of his sentence the bookshelf makes an elevator ping and slides back inside itself.

The nonchalant expression stays frozen on Bruce's face.

I laugh and step into the secret elevator, placing the biography back on the shelf.

"The idea was…if someone accidentally picked up this book, the moment they realized what it was they'd put it back and in doing so stopping the elevator from opening."

"All right, you win. I did not know about this," Bruce says, "Where does it go?"

"Straight down to the Archives and Applied Sciences. This is the same elevator we always use."

"There's no button to go to the 50th floor," Bruce observes.

"It's a one way trip, unfortunately."

"Not to question the utility of a secret elevator but…what did my predecessors use it for?"

"Haven't you ever needed to discreetly leave Wayne Tower? Or escape from the boardroom in an emergency?"

"No."

"I guess your life just isn't as eventful as your grandfather's."

"Or his definition of 'emergency' was an extremely boring lunchtime conference."

"Better to escape than sleep through the meeting."

"I'm never really asleep at those meetings. I need to keep up the pretense that I'm not paying attention."

"Mr. Fox tells me you snore," I tease.

"I do not snore. Not even when I'm truly sleeping."

"Have you ever woken up in the middle of the night?"

"Yes, why?"

"It was probably an extraordinarily load snore you woke yourself up with."

"More likely it was the nightmares," Bruce informs me snidely.

"Nightmares?"

Bruce doesn't elaborate on the subject, pretending to be unusually interested in the flickering digital display of what floor we were on. I watch the number gradually descend with him: 20...19...18...17.

"I had lunch with Mr. Fredericks yesterday," I say, changing topics.

"I saw," Bruce says quietly.

"He talked about your father. And you, a little."

My comments provoke no response.

"And about the night they died."

More silence.

"Bruce, is Batman about revenge?"

"No," he finally replies, "I promised to prevent anyone else from experiencing what I went through. Not to avenge their deaths."

"Good, I made the right choice then."

"What choice?"

"The choice to defend Batman. Mr. Fredericks believes the vigilante's actions are purely inciting more violence."

"And what do you believe?"  
"I believe Batman has a higher purpose. One that's not personal, and does not crave violence for violence's sake."

"I've never killed a man."

"I know. I've kept track of your victims."

"I didn't know…"

"It's all here in the archives." I gesture around the room we're now navigating through. "And here's our destination," I announce, stopping in front of the wall. Bruce begins to examine the labels on the cabinets surrounding him. I stand with my back to the cement, discreetly placing my hand on the hidden trigger.

"You won't find anything interesting in those files. But in here you might," I continue, stepping aside as the wall opens up.

Bruce walks wonderingly into the secret government connections room, exploring the shelves and computers.

"Your grandfather acted as a part time government agent. The autobiography upstairs is a joke, completely untrue."

"What did he do for the government?"

"Wayne Enterprises was stridently anti-communist back in the 50's."

"I see."

"This is mainly what I wanted to show you. Mr. Waltham charged me with the duty of passing these secrets onto the next Mr. Wayne."

"My father knew about this?"

"Judging from what Mr. Waltham told me, yes."

"Do we still have government contacts?"

"Of course. None of them are active, though."

"But if I found the need…I could potentially call on them."

"You could."

Bruce nods thoughtfully, and then walks out of the room.

I follow, shutting everything down and recovering the wall. I briefly show him the place where the wall can be activated. Bruce's mind seems divided, the other half far away in thought.

"Already making plans for government projects?" I ask, curious.

"I'm considering it."

"All you need to do is ask. I'll arrange everything."

"Are there any other…secrets I should know about?" Bruce asks cautiously.

"Other than the secret involvement of Wayne Aerospace with NASA in the 60's?"

"That one I heard about."

"Then, no. I think you're covered."

"Thanks," Bruce says, smiling genuinely.

"Anything else you need?"

"Actually, yes. Can you get me information on hitman Johnny LaMonica? LaMonica is an escapee from Arkham who is rumored to have been hired to go after the new DA."

"We have a new DA?"

"He's not after one particular person. Anyone in line for the District Attorney's office is fair game."

"And you're worried about Rachel. Of course," I say, "I'll start looking now."

"Thank you, again," Bruce says adamantly, "Any news on his whereabouts would be ideal."

"I understand," I assure him, "Now if you'll leave me to my work..." I usher him out of the archives. However, instead of returning to my computers as I'm sure Bruce assumes I'll do, I gather up my things to leave. The Archives are full of history, which is great when I need to understand the back-story of something or someone. But when I need current information…well…there's only one place in the city to go for that.

I disappear out the backdoor and down the alley behind Wayne Tower. Luckily, Mary had already delivered the reports and newspapers for the day, leaving me free to roam the city without the worry of being caught missing. A couple blocks later I climb the steps to Gotham Library. The cushioned seat in the corner of the huge entryway is strangely vacant. Feeling slightly concerned, I walk up to Rose's desk.

"On lunch break are we?" Rose asks, smiling.

"No, I'm looking for Bob."

"Bob who?"

I glance pointedly in the direction of the empty chair.

"Oh, the homeless man," Rose says, "I haven't seen him since…Friday. I suppose that is rather odd. Usually we see him once a day, every day."

"Bob hasn't been to the library since last Friday?"

"I guess not."

"If you see him, call me," I say, turning to leave.

"What do you need him for?" Rose calls out.

"Work related," I reply, shrugging it off.

If I were homeless, I ask myself, and didn't feel like going to the library, where would I be? I return to the streets of Gotham, keeping an eye out for the familiar haunts of vagrants. The men and women on their usual street corners are unusually absent. Either the Mayor uncharacteristically became very serious about solving the housing problems in this city, which is highly unlikely, or something strange is going on. My search takes me to the abandoned subway, fallen into disrepair after the construction of Thomas Wayne's above ground train. In the station, a few figures huddle over an open fire pit.

"Bob," I yell from across the station, "I have some questions for you." I jog towards the group.

"You the scarecrow's man?" he asks, looking at me with wide eyes.

"Who's the scarecrow?" I ask.

"The scarecrow collects all the homeless and beggars. And tells us we need to get revenge."

"A man is organizing the homeless?"

"I refuse to join. My friends and I hide in the subways to avoid the scarecrow."

"Where can I find this scarecrow?"

"In Old Gotham, near Crime Alley. The scarecrow is holding a meeting today."

"Where? Do you know street names?"

"At the abandoned factory."

"The abandoned factory, thank you," I say quickly and immediately ascend to street level, pulling out my cell phone as I leave.

Only to realize I never actually got Bruce's cell phone number. We always just seemed to…run into each other. Thankfully my phone saved Alfred's call from this morning.

"Hello?" Alfred says pleasantly.

"Alfred, I need to talk to Bruce. It's urgent."

"He's not here right now, I'm afraid."

"Can you give me his cell phone number?"

"I'm sorry, I'm not at liberty to give out that information."

"Alfred! You've got to be kidding me."

A low voice in the background asks "Who are you talking to, Alfred?"

"It seems Master Wayne has arrived home," Alfred informs me dryly.

"Put him on please. And next time, don't tease me like this."

"As always, Miss Lyn."

The next voice I hear is Bruce saying hello.

"I have information," I tell him anxiously, "Not exactly what you wanted, but it involves a scarecrow, and possibly an entire homeless army."

"Explain."

"This scarecrow has been recruiting homeless men and women for something. Bob told me all about it. And a meeting is happening today at the abandoned factory in Old Gotham."

"The scarecrow…do you mean Jonathan Crane?"

"I have no idea, Bob didn't elaborate on that."

"It _is_ Crane then," Bruce says darkly, "Whatever he's planning; he's undoubtedly using fear for control."

"I know where the place is. I can get there in ten minutes by train."

"No, Lyn, you can't go charging in there expecting to be able to handle the situation. Don't go near Crime Alley. I'll take care of this."

"I was not intending to 'charge in'. As stupid as I may seem to you, I do not have a death wish. However, I know the narrows like the back of my hand. I grew up there; I've lived there for the past six years. I'll go to the factory and survey everything from another building."

Silence on the other end of the line.

"Okay," Bruce agrees at last, "As long as you promise to stay out of sight."

"Of course," I say, "And what is your cell phone number? Alfred won't give it to me."

"Sorry. He has strict instructions never to give out that number. I believe he's somewhat resentful of that fact."

"I couldn't tell."

"It's 426-228-6260. And if you press a 1 after calling you'll be directed through to my batsuit cowl."

"Thanks. Are you aware you're phone number could spell IAM-BAT-MAN?"

"It must be my subconscious wanting to be discovered."

"Must be."

"Before you go, who's Bob? Someone I should be in contact with?"

"Sure, I can introduce you. Bob is a homeless friend of mine who's insane, but harmless. He kind of knows you're Batman."

"Kind of? At the rate you're telling people, the entire city will know by tomorrow."

"I didn't tell him. Actually, I'm not sure if he's connected the two yet. But he found the batcave somehow."

"If he doesn't tell anyone, I don't care."

"He won't."

"Good," Bruce's voice sounds strangely tired over the phone, "I'll be in the narrows soon."

"Bye."

I hang up and take the train station steps two by two. The time it takes to get from the Diamond District to the narrows seems agonizingly slow. I sketch my fellow passengers as I wait impatiently. One particularly loud and obnoxious man definitely looks homeless. He talks to me while I draw; complaining of life's various cruelties. I nod along with what he's saying, not actually paying attention. When the train reaches my stop I find myself getting off after the man. I casually stroll along beside him, pretending to be absorbed in his conversation. He doesn't seem to notice anything is amiss. When we reach the street of the abandoned factory I lose my new friend in the crowd, but keep an eye on him long enough to see him go inside the side door of the building.

Never mind the condemned sign, I guess.

I spot movement in a top story window, thankfully on the side nearest the next building. I enter the building, which turns out to be a tenement. Climbing the six flights of steps is hard, but I make it to the roof in mere minutes. I peer below into the window of the building across from me. A crowd gathers in an expansive room, with a single figure towering above them all. The figure wears a sack over his head and appears to be giving some sort of speech. My visibility is limited, however.

Next time, I'm bringing binoculars.

I call Bruce, "Inside the building are about one hundred people, on the top floor, which is one large room, with one leader who wears a sack."

"Crane," Batboy's voice confirms.

"Where are you, by the way?"

"I can't exactly take the most direct route in broad daylight."

"Well, some cops beat you here. I recognize Crispus Allen from the publicity spot on him being transferred from Metropolis. They're not going in, just hanging around across the street. Do you think they know something?"

"Perhaps. This side door. Where is it?"

"On the left side, behind a couple garbage bins. I see you. If the black shadow that just slipped into the factory is you."

"It is. Go down. Make sure Allen and Ramirez don't get involved."

"I thought I wasn't supposed to move from my spot?"

"Lyn…" Batboy growls warningly.

"I'm already on the stairs, don't worry."

I hang up and jog down the stairs, wondering vaguely how many more trips I'll have to make before this is over. On my way down I try to come up with a story to keep the cops out of the building. Once at ground level I casually sprawl out on the tenement stoop, flipping open my cell and pretending to take a call. In the corner of my eye I watch Allen and the other cop, Ramirez, argue. Eventually the argument comes to a conclusion and the two walk across the street to the factory. Startled and nervous, I force myself to jump up and run after them.

"Hey! Cops!" I yell out, "I think I just saw Batman on the roof of my apartment." I point blindly upward and try my best to look like a ditzy blonde. So much for a carefully planned story.

Allen and Ramirez exchange a look.

"I'm serious! He looked ready to attack!" I add, feeling more foolish by the minute.

"Should we check it out while we wait for backup?" Ramirez suggests to Allen.

Allen nods and strides up the tenement steps. I follow meekly, hoping my ruse works. When we get to the roof Allen holds me back and tells me to stay behind while they do their work. Ramirez kicks open the door and looks around, gun out.

"Drop the gun!" she yells to an unseen opponent. Before either of us have a chance to react, Allen and I watch Ramirez's body drop under a barrage of bullets. Allen nearly jumps out of the open door, but I hold him back this time. A figure dressed in a black suit steps up to Ramirez and aims his gun at her head.

"A bullet proof vest. Nice. Who are you? How did you know I was here?" the man asks.

"A tip. Didn't know. I'm….cop."

Before the man shoots Ramirez one last time, a loud blast rings in my ear. I drop to my knees, covering my head in terror. When I next look up I see Allen crouched over Ramirez. The body of the would-be assassin lies crumpled to the side. Trembling, I start to walk down the stairs.

"Wait, I'll need your name," Allen says, appearing at the door.

"Lynnet Pearl," I say numbly, handing him a business card, "Can I go?"

"You can. I'm sorry you had to witness this."

"She'll be alright though, won't she?" I ask.

"She should be. Thank god for these vests."

He turns back to his wounded partner, leaving me on my own. At that moment my brain finally registers the fact that my cell phone has been vibrating since the gunshots began.

"Hello?" I ask.

"Can you see the scarecrow?"

"Not from where I am." I wait until Allen starts to carry Ramirez down before looking out over the roof railing. "Wait, yes I can. He just left the building from a window on the second floor. Fell in the garbage."

Our connection goes dead and a millisecond later I see Batboy crash out of the window next to the one the scarecrow used. A swarm of people throw themselves against the window sill, leaning over and yelling threats. The fight between Batboy and the scarecrow lasts barely a minute before the side door breaks open and a crowd rushes out. Amidst the confusion the scarecrow escapes down the alley.

"Scarecrow heading East towards Sheloon park," I report.

The black figure in the mass of limbs breaks free and runs after the retreating masked man.

I close my cell and sink to the floor. Bruce is on his own now, I can't see a thing. It occurs to me that Bruce wasn't aware of the gun fight that happened right in front of me. If he had known, would he have been able to come to my aid in time? Or if Allen and Ramirez hadn't been here, would I be lying in the assassin's place? I sit on the roof, staring at the lifeless body of a man who must have either been here all along, or arrived after I went down to talk to the cops. Either way, I had come pretty close to death. The risks of my alliance with Batboy begin to set in.

And serve only to make me that much more determined to continue.

My cell phone vibrates again and I pick up.

"Did you catch him?" I ask.

"Catch who? Lyn have you gone crazy?"

Chad. I desperately try to suppress a groan.

"I thought you were Eleanor. I have to go, I'm expecting a call." I say, hanging up before he can react. Then I dial Bruce's number and repeat the question.

"No. He had a car waiting," Bruce says darkly.

"Of course. Did you find out what he's planning?"

"Vaguely. Some new housing developers have increased efforts to bar the homeless from certain sections of the city. The group is angry and afraid. Crane's playing on their strong emotions."

"Well, that's something at least."

"But not much. Your surveillance helped."

"Yeah, well. Can you give me a ride back to the bat-bunker? I think you'll definitely want to hear my side of the story."

"In the alley behind the factory."

I hang up and force myself into a standing position. One step at a time I gradually make my way down the six floors. Behind the building I find the Tumbler parked in shadow. As I await Batboy's return I speculate what his reaction will be to my near death experience.

And whether or not he'll agree to repeat this experiment again.


	13. Week 2:Thursday

13: Many apologies for the long wait!! November was insane, but now I'm on break with lots of extra time so look forward to more frequent updates.

Disclaimer: Don't own anything related to the DC Universe

I was right about one thing: late nights take some time to get used to. Thankfully, besides treating a few minor cuts and scrapes, Bruce didn't need me much last night. I was able to go home to a very confused Chad at around 11:00, giving me enough time to explain myself before crashing on my bed. I told Chad all about staying overnight at Eleanor's and surprisingly enough, he believed me. Perhaps events surrounding me have gotten so crazy lately that he's willing to believe anything.

Now I sit at my desk down in Archives as if going about a normal workday. Batboy's exploits last night made the front page of Gotham Daily. An artist's rendition of a man in a cape chasing after the scarecrow covers the paper. Not being able to get a decent photo of Batboy must frustrate the press to no end. I leaf through section A, searching for an article covering Allen and Ramirez's fight against the mysterious assassin. Bruce, Alfred, and I came to the conclusion last night that Edward LaMonica was our prime suspect, and that the two events were probably connected somehow. The unanswered question is, why would LaMonica be hired to take out both the DA and a criminal like Crane? Are the criminals in Gotham city battling for superiority amongst themselves?

Before I spot anything on Ramirez, I catch sight of a familiar painting. On page two, displayed prominently on the page, a pair of faces stare out at me looking as grim and worn out as any face in Gotham. The article claims local businessman George Lawton purchased the 1930's portrait American Gotham and donated it to Gotham Art Museum. The museum is holding an opening tomorrow night in his honor. I make a mental note to remember to go to the opening.

At the bottom of the last page a small blurb briefly mentions a cop injured in a gun battle during a domestic dispute. Certainly, the shooting took place in a tenement, but I would not call it a domestic dispute. Either the press is failing to check facts, or someone in the police department is covering this incident up. I intend to investigate further when I go in to give my statement at the MCU.

"You look more awake this morning."

I look up from the newspaper to find Bruce standing in front of my desk.

"I told you I could get used to it," I remind him.

"I know," he says, "If you don't go get yourself killed first."

"The pot's calling the kettle black, again," I say, picking up my files and heading into the cabinet maze.

"How is it that I tell you to stay out of trouble, and yet you still manage to run into one of Gotham's most deadly assassins?" Bruce asks, grinning lopsidedly.

"We already went over this. It was purely coincidence, and next time I'll be more aware of my surroundings. Also, I'll have that nifty new gadget Fox gave me," I tell him.

"While you're following me around like this, make yourself useful." I place my stack of files in Bruce's arms and heft the top section into the appropriate bin. I wave him on and lead the way to the next cabinet.

"Those binoculars are pretty impressive. But I'd feel better if you had a quick way of getting out of situations like that."

"What do you propose?" I ask while making another dent in the stack of files.

"A motorcycle."

"What?" I whirl around to face him.

"You seemed to enjoy the ride on Tuesday. I could teach you to drive one yourself and…"

"Being a passenger on a motorcycle is much different than driving. And where would I keep such a thing? The bike rack at my apartment in the narrows?"

"You would keep it at the bat-bunker, and only use it when…running errands. Motorcycles are much faster than the train." The grin on his face transforms into a smug smile.

I laugh and finish filing while considering Bruce's suggestion.

"All right. If it will make you feel better…and I'll admit I would like to learn…I'll give it a try," I say, smiling in return.

"Good," Bruce says .

We arrive back at my desk. I settle into my computer chair, getting ready to organize the reports from yesterday that I never got around to doing.

"I should leave," Bruce adds regretfully, "Mr. Fox and I have a meeting in the boardroom with LSI Holdings at 11:00."

"Bruce, it's 11 now," I point out.

"I know. I have a reputation to maintain."

"And you seem to have no problem doing so," I mutter.

"I'll see you tonight," he calls before leaving.

"I have plans, actually."

"Oh?"

"Dinner with Sam and Lawrence. It's a weekly tradition and it would look odd if I didn't show up. And Nancy scheduled the first portrait session this evening."

"Clearly the safety of Gotham City is not your top priority," he teases.

I glance up and glare at him.

Laughing, Bruce gives me a small wave goodbye and disappears into the elevator.

Other than the snide comment, he took the news of my prior commitments rather calmly. I shake my head at the oddities of Bruce Wayne and continue with my work.

An hour later I compile all my files into neat stacks and get ready for lunch. But just as I'm about to stand up I feel cold metal press against the back of my neck. I freeze in place.

"Don't move. I've been stuck down here for the past half hour, wandering in circles, and I'm not in the mood for games." The voice behind me is quiet and low.

"My apologies, it can be very confusing down here. It took me weeks to…" I start to say.

"I'm looking for Applied Sciences."

"Well you almost made it. You're in Archives right now. Applied Sciences is one floor down."

"Before you try to trick me into going in the front elevator, let me save your breath and tell you I've already tried that. Where is the way down?"

"It would be much easier for me to show you rather than offer you a convoluted set of directions."

The man behind me falls quiet, but the gun doesn't move.

"Please. Show me. If you try any tricks, you're dead," he says calmly. He moves back and I feel momentarily relieved. Slowly, cautiously, I stand up and turn to face my attacker. Pointing a gun at me is Jacob Feely, plain as can be in jeans and a shirt.

"Follow me," I say, a little faintly.

"What's your name?"

"Lynnet Pearl. Not that it's any of your business."

"I'm Jacob Feely, if you didn't recognize me," he says, smirking.

"I did. I hear you're an expert at electronics."

"Not just electronics. Computers. Explosives. Everything!" the man says, "And I intend to 'borrow' some of the new technology Wayne Enterprises is working on."

"To be used for some crime?" I ask.

"An ingenious, creative crime. Unlike the messy failure Jonathan Crane managed to execute."

"What's the point?"

"A challenge! I got out of Arkham on my own. Now I'll make a name for myself here in Gotham."

"So you can be put in jail again?"

His grin widens mysteriously.

"This is the elevator," I announce numbly, pressing the button.

"You're coming with me, Miss Pearl," Feely says, gesturing for me to get into the elevator behind him, "I'm not letting you sound the alarm."

"Of course," I say, staring down the gun barrel. I take a step forward, but at the last second I dive to the side and run into the maze. My flee catches Feely off guard. A shot rings out behind me but I don't look back. Within minutes I reach the front elevator, anxiously pressing the up button and desperately hoping I'll get a quick response. After an agonizing two minutes, during which I decide Feely either continued down to Applied Sciences or cut his losses and left, the elevator arrives and I immediately press the 50th floor button.

I dial Bruce's cell, but his phone is off, probably because of the meeting.

When the elevator finally gets to the 50th floor, I rush out of the elevator to Jessica's desk.

"I need to speak to B - Mr. Wayne. Urgently," I tell her.

"He's in a meeting right now," Jessica says, looking confused, "Not that he acts as anything other than a waste of space during these meetings, but nevertheless, he insists."

"Well, I insist on seeing him right now. It's about Applied Sciences. The department where he used to work."

"I suppose if it's really that urgent…"

"It is."

"Okay, but if this ruins Mr. Wayne's precious joint venture he won't be happy," Jessica warns. She gets up and lightly raps on the door to the boardroom.

"Mr. Wayne? Urgent business for you," She says, exuding a sense of calm and politeness completely opposite to the urgency rushing through me.

Bruce saunters out the boardroom door, appearing bleary eyed and unconcerned.

His eyes widen after they focus on me.

"You're needed in Applied Sciences, sir," I say, turning back to the elevator.

Bruce nods and gets in after me.

"Wait," Jessica says, "It's my lunch break, I'll be needing to stop off at the cafeteria."

She sidles in alongside us and presses the second floor button.

We seem to stop at every floor between the fiftieth and second. The elevator ride is extremely awkward between Jessica trying to make polite conversation, greeting the newcomers going down to lunch, and trying desperately to not look at Bruce for fear of letting something slip.

"What do you need Wayne down in Applied Sciences for anyway? Don't tell me he's of some use," Jessica asks in a very audible whisper.

Bruce raises an eyebrow at me from behind Jessica's head.

"Security clearance," I invent, "There's been some trouble with…uh…borrowed prototypes."

By the 30th floor it becomes clear Bruce's patience is wearing thin. He steps out of the elevator , giving me a significant glance as he leaves.

I take the hint and get off after him. The minute the two of us enter the deserted stairs Bruce starts to run.

"What happened?" he calls back at me.

"Jacob Feely," I say, my words echoing down the stairwell, "Escorted me at gunpoint to find the Applied Sciences elevator. Said he intended to steal some kind of new technology."

"Everything in Applied Sciences is new technology."

"I know!"

We clatter down the stairs at high speed, our heavy footsteps echoing loudly as we go. Eventually I run out of breath with a painful stitch in my side.

"You go on, I'm taking the elevator. I'll probably just be in the way, anyway," I say breathlessly. Bruce doesn't even glance back, just keeps going.

Back in the elevator I get a few odd looks.

"I tried the stairs for exercise. But it was a bit too rigorous for me," I joke lightly.

Panting heavily in the middle of a crowd should be added to one of those lists of uncomfortable elevator situations. The elevator empties out at the bottom floor, but not before stopping on at least ten extra floors in between. I'm the only one left to get off at archives.

Bruce greets me at the elevator door.

"Feely is gone, and I need your help figuring out what he took from Applied Sciences," Bruce says quietly.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have left…"

"It wouldn't have mattered. It's probably for the best I wasn't able to do anything. Not as Bruce Wayne, anyway."

I nod and follow Bruce down to Applied Sciences. The computers greet us, frozen on a frustratingly familiar blue screen. The blue screen of death often comes up on my PC at home. The Wayne Enterprises server, however, runs solely on Linux, causing a brief moment of confusion for Bruce and I as we examine the screens. Then I realize the words frozen on the screens read "Jacob Feely". The criminal clearly wanted to be remembered. Bruce and I exchanged a glance.

"Perhaps this is a problem best left to Mr. Fox," I suggest.

He nods gravely and pulls out his cell phone.

I walk through the department. Nothing has been noticeably disturbed. Could Feely's entire goal have been to sabotage Wayne Enterprise's server? If so, Feely was in for a disappointment. Mr. Fox ensured the server was backed up every day. At worst, Mr. Fox would only loose whatever he'd been working on today. And, well, let's just say Archives has a very secure system of backing up files.

"Look at this," Bruce says, pressing play on a security tape, "Applied Sciences has its own separate security system. Mr. Fox installed it when he took over and decided it was best if the local police didn't start poking their noses about in here."

On the tape is a single image of Jacob Feely's face, grinning a challenge at his victims.

"He certainly wants us to have no question about who robbed Wayne Enterprises," I comment wryly.

"And yet we have no idea what he took," Bruce adds.

"I might," Mr. Fox says, coming up behind us.

"Mr Fox. Glad you could make it. What happened to the LSI meeting?" Bruce asks, looking pleasantly surprised.

"Mr. Lau understands how unpredictable a CEO's schedule can be," Mr. Fox says.

"You said you had an idea of what Feely might have been after?" I prompt.

"Before becoming involved with the mob, or perhaps before becoming openly involved with the mob, Jacob worked here. He had a pet project which he lost access to the minute he was indicted. I believe we'll find the prototype and documentation on this project now missing," Mr. Fox explains.

"He worked here?" Bruce asks incredulously.

"Jacob was a genius," Mr. Fox shifts through the prototype storage looking for Feely's invention, "Unfortunately genius and madness are closely related here in Gotham."

"A direct relationship: the more insanity, the more intelligence," I laugh humorlessly.

I wonder where that puts me.

Mr. Fox pulls out an empty bin, "Here is where it should be. The prototype of a single combat weapon. The rucksack included everything Jacob could imagine as being useful to a lone fighter: a jet pack, close range explosive devices, GPS system, and a radio. The prototype also had a bodysuit version of the Kevlar armor that sacrificed a significant amount of protection for flexibility."

"And now Feely is loose in Gotham with this equipment," Bruce confirms grimly.

Mr. Fox shakes his head in disagreement, "I believe getting the prototype was a matter of principle for Feely. He could have easily reassembled the pack. Stealing from Wayne Enterprises was a way of ensuring all credit for the invention goes to him."

"This guy isn't insane. He just has self-esteem issues," I say, gesturing towards the frozen photo of Feely on the TV monitor, "Which could be used against him."

Bruce nods thoughtfully, "Something to keep in mind while going after him."

"You won't need to search very hard, he'll leave a trail miles behind him," I add.

"The trick is figuring out where he'll go before he gets there," Bruce says.

"A little more of a challenge," I agree, smiling, "Anyway, I'd love to stay and chat but I have to head over to MCU and give my report to Gordon."

"Yet another mystery to solve," Bruce says, "The assassin."

"With Arkham Asylum completely empty, I worry we'll have a sudden influx of such crimes," Mr. Fox says gravely. He sits down at the computer and restarts it, "Meanwhile, we have to solve the problem one step at a time. I'll start with this one."

"Do you think you can fix whatever Feely did to the computer?" Bruce asks.

"In time. I'm afraid Jacob is forgetting who taught him his own tricks" Mr. Fox answers with a twinkle in his eye.

"Is it a virus?" Bruce asks.

I leave them to their tinkering with the computer and take the elevator back to Archives.

An hour later I'm sitting restlessly in the waiting room at GCPD headquarters. The police department seems unusually hectic. Finally the same woman I watched being shot on the top of that apartment takes the time to sit down and talk with me.

"Thanks for showing," Ramirez says, "We were worried that our witness would, as usual, mysteriously disappear. My partner, as wonderful a cop as he is, was too distracted by my injury to follow the typical procedure."

"Are you all right? Well, obviously you're all right now, but…" I stammer.

"I'm fine for the most part. No permanent damage thanks to our wonderful bullet proof vests.- top quality courtesy of multiple generous donations from one Gotham Prince," she grins, "Bruce Wayne may consider himself above the law in terms of speed limits and drug use if the rumors are true, but he apparently values the lives of average detectives like me."

"I'd believe the speeding rumors," I laugh.

"Do you know the guy?"

"No, worse. I work for him," I hold my hand out for Ramirez to shake, "Lynnet Pearl, Wayne Enterprises Archivist and Head of Applied Sciences."

"Wow, what was a head employee of Wayne Enterprises doing down in Crime Alley?"

"Looking for apartments. I used to live in the narrows so I wanted to keep the same general atmosphere."

Ramirez laughs off my answer, clearly believing it to be a joke.

"I thought you might have something to do with that activist group plaguing developer Ron Marshall these past few months."

"Activist group?"

"Never mind, clearly you aren't," Ramirez says, "Though it's rather ironic you say you're looking for an apartment. That's exactly what the activists are protesting."

"New apartments?"

"Not just new apartments - fancy high-end apartments replacing slums. The leader, Theresa Williams, is advocating building affordable, low-income housing to support the community currently living in the area. There's been so much public support for her cause, even the mayor is beginning to lean her way."

"Was that what you were doing down in Crime Alley? Or was it just a routine thing?"

"Routine," Ramirez replies, sighing, "And our bad luck to stumble on a secret meeting of vagrants."

"What secret meeting? I'm afraid I was only aware of the man dressed in black with his gun."

"In the building across the way. We're assuming someone in the meeting, possibly the leader, was the assassin's target. The leader is rumored to be Jonathan Crane, who has his fair share of enemies now released from Arkham Asylum, so the fact that an assassin's targeting him doesn't seem too surprising…"

"I imagine his torturous experiments didn't win him any friends."

"What do you know about Jonathan Crane? Or the assassin you thought was Batman?"

"In hindsight, I can't imagine how I confused the two, or escaped unhurt when I first ran into him. I guess the man didn't see me; he was rather focused on the building opposite."

"You saw the black and immediately assumed…" Ramirez speculates.

"And I didn't notice the gun. If I had seen the gun, I would have known immediately it wasn't the batman. The newspapers always champion the fact that he never uses a gun."

"The guy you saw, did you get a look at his face, or any identifying features?"

"Unfortunately, no."

"Allen's prime suspect so far is Jacob Feely," Ramirez confides.

I prevent myself from contradicting this theory. Feely is too obvious a criminal for assassination attempts.

"But I disagree," Ramirez continues, "Feely's first few robberies have been small but loud. He's making sure everyone knows his name. The guy on the roof was the opposite - subtle."

I nod in agreement, "Makes sense."

"Detective Ramirez, who is this young woman?" A smooth male voice interrupts our conversation..

My nerves bristle at being called 'young', especially when I look up to discover the speaker is fairly young himself - probably no more than five or ten years older than me.

"Harvey Dent, Internal Affairs" he introduces himself, shaking my hand.

"Lynnet Pearl," I respond somewhat coolly.

"Nice to meet you," he says, smiling warmly. He turns to Ramirez, leading her out of the room by the shoulders, "Do you have a minute, Anna? There's something I need to speak to you about."

Before they exit, Harvey Dent throws a last glance back at me, "Gordon is free now, by the way, you can go in."

I step into Lieutenant Jim Gordon's office, feeling a little hesitant. Gordon stands near his desk, hands clasped behind his back and staring out the window.

"Lieutenant Gordon?" I ask, knocking softly on the door.

He turns around, habitually pushing his glasses up his nose, "Who are you?"

"Lynnet Pearl," I tell him, feeling a bit like a broken record, "I'm the one who got caught in the middle of the shooting yesterday."

"Right," he says, sitting down and gesturing to a chair across from him, "Tell me what you saw."

I describe everything that happened, while leaving out any connection to batman of course, but it's clear from Gordon's unchanged, weary expression that my information is not helpful at all. The cup of coffee glued in his hand has probably been filled a thousand times this past week. A bulletin board behind him displays a variety of article clips, photos, and notes on an astonishing number of missing felons; a scrap of Jonathan Crane's scarecrow mask, Jacob Feely's mug shots, a blood stained joker card, and other paraphernalia stand out from the mass of paper. By the end of our meeting, it's obvious I did nothing to alleviate Gordon's stress.

"Thank you for your time," Gordon says, holding the door open for me as I leave.

"You're welcome. I'm afraid I wasn't much help. Sorry."

"These are hard times lately. But things usually have to get worse before they can get better. There's still hope," Gordon gives me a gentle smile.

I step outside GPD and walk directly to the nearest station. The narrows might be overrun, but Sam and Lawrence still live there. A couple of thugs prowling the streets will not interfere with my routine Thursday night lasagna. Especially since the narrows was known for the high levels if criminal activity even before the event on Sunday night. Admittedly, the train into the narrows is unusually deserted. At the station I got off of every day after work I'm greeted by a very self-satisfied looking police officer.

"Madam, I'm afraid you can't get off here. Please continue to take the train through the narrows to your destination," He says, sauntering up to the platform.

"This is my destination," I hiss irritably, "Since when can't a person go home?"

"Ever since the mayor ordered a quarantine on this part of the city ," he clears his throat and rests a hand on his hip, "The narrows is off limits."

"Impossible," I say, "What about the people who live here? Families?"

"Don't live here anymore."

"I happen to know at least one family is still here."

"Well, we can't force people to move, can't we? If they want to get themselves killed, that's their problem."

Dumbfounded, I ignore the man's comment and push past him to the stairs.

"Go ahead, go into an area no cops enter alone. See how well you fare. I can promise you will not receive any personal protection," he yells at my retreating back.

On the surface nothing has changed about the narrows. Ordinary people, children even, are walking through the tight alleys in the last light of the day. Of course, my home is not in the worst part of the narrows, so perhaps things begin to decay further on. The wild tales of seeing gangs of men in orange jumpsuits waiting for the chance to catch someone walking home along prove to be false in this section. I reach home without incident and climb the steps to Sam's apartment. A part of me is tempted to finish the climb and visit my old apartment, but I stop myself from going. The memories of my burning sketchbooks are too recent for comfort.

"Lyn!" Sam exclaims, opening the door wide. He pulls me into a bear hug, obviously glad to see me.

"What are you doing here?" Lawrence barks, looking up from setting the dinner table.

"It's 6:00 Thursday! Where else would I be?" I ask, smiling, ignoring the dark tone in Lawrence's voice.

"You're completely right," Sam tells me, leading me into the kitchen, "You can't miss lasagna night. We'll be having a couple more visitors tonight as well."

I help Joan assemble the salad while watching Sam put the finishing touches on the lasagna. The door rattles again and Sam runs to answer it.

"Ah, Katharine!" He exclaims, "And Mario and Tony!"

Two kids race into the room to join Larry and Cecil. Sam escorts in a pink faced Italian woman who looks rather embarrassed.

"Katharine, meet Lyn, an old family friend," Sam introduces us.

"Hello," I say, "Do you live in the building?"

"She's temporarily staying in your apartment," Lawrence tells me, his tone challenging me to respond unfavorably.

"What?" I ask, surprised.

"Lyn, you understand, empty space doesn't last long here in the narrows. She needed a place to stay and we needed your apartment to look lived in," Sam explains.

"Of course," I say, forcing myself to get over my initial hostility to the idea, "Nice to meet you Katharine."

"Come, let's eat," Joan says loudly, plunking the salad bowl down on the table.

The entire room scrambles to find a seat. I end up in between Larry and one of Katharine's boys.

"Here we are!" Sam announces, bringing in the platter of lasagna. He digs into the dish and serves everyone with heaping platefuls. Noodles, cheese, and meat never tasted so wonderful.

At the end of dinner, however, tensions begin to rise again.

"How will you be getting home?" Lawrence asks, barely concealing his annoyance.

"I'll find a way."

"The train is no longer safe at night. Many lost their jobs because of it. There is no way in or out of the narrows after dark. Did you think about that before you came?"

"Lawrence," Sam starts to say warningly.

"I did, Lawrence, thank you for your concern," I tell him.

"And what did you come up with? Flying on the back of your friend?"

I sit in silence for a minute before Joan stands up and sweeps piles of dirty dishes into her arms, "Lyn help me with the dishes."

"Sure, great," I reply, collecting empty plates rather stiffly. I follow Joan into the kitchen and dump the plates into the sink, letting the hot water run over them.

"You think you can parade around down here just because you have special protection?" Lawrence followed me into the kitchen. Sam and Katharine usher the kids into the main room, trying to distract them from the argument.

"You don't have any idea what you're talking about," I say, turning on Lawrence.

"No?" Lawrence asks, "Why else would you come back?"

"Because this is my home, and I care about you guys!"

"Do you?" Lawrence dumps dishes into the sink and storms out of the kitchen. The front door slams in the distance.

Shaken, I turn the water off and begin to scrub plates.

"I do too know what I'm doing," I say half under my breath and half to Joan.

"Lyn, as much as you might not want to hear it, Lawrence is right. You can get out of here, leave. Not all of us have that chance. Do you know how much we would give to be able to move?" Joan says softly.

"I lived here too. I still would live here if it weren't for Maroni."

"Is it just Maroni? Lyn, everything may look the same, but the reality is the level of danger is twice that of what it once was."

"Then why doesn't someone do something about it?"

"The police are trying."

"No. No they're not. One of them basically told me so at the train station today."

"Then if the police aren't, batman is. Maybe he's the only chance we've got left."

"You're part of that hope too," I tell her, handing over a bowl for drying, "The more civilians who live here, the more pressure Gotham's government will have to fix this."

"It doesn't quite work that way," Joan says, sighing.

We finish the dishes in silence. Afterwards Joan, Katharine, Sam, and I relax at the table, talking about the same old things and avoiding anything that comes close to mentioning Lawrence. In the middle of our conversation my phone begins to ring loudly. Glancing at the ID I wince, seeing Nancy's name flashing across the screen.

"I need to take this call, unfortunately," I tell everyone, stepping out into the apartment hall.

"Nancy, hi!" I say, false happiness oozing from my voice.

"Lyn, when can you be here to start the portrait?" Nancy asks brightly.

"Um, well you know I live in the narrows," I begin.

"You live in the narrows? Dear god, what are you thinking? There's no way you're using the train after dark…"

"I know, I'll find a way to get there. Just give me an hour or so…"

"I'll send a car to come get you in a jiffy. Just give me your address," Nancy continues as if she hadn't heard a word I said.

"Okay," I relent. While listening to Nancy prattle on, I head up the steps to my apartment. I must brave my fear of bursting out in sobs in order to obtain my painting materials. I swing the door open and discover an entirely transformed apartment.

"Where's all my stuff?" I confront Joan and Sam after completing a thorough search of the apartment.

"They helped me move it to the attic," Katharine stammers, "I'm sorry, I didn't think you'd be back anytime soon."

"Great, thanks," I mumble. Sam follows me out to help me shift through the piles of junk in the attic. The entire room is uninhabitable, being filled to the brim with old furniture. A long time ago, when my father was still alive, every piece of furniture held a special place in the house. Since then, however, the company that turned my home into apartments moved everything into the attic. One of my now-burned sketchbooks contained a documentation of where everything went, as if I anticipated the day I might return the objects to their proper places.

"Here's your supplies," Sam calls from the opposite side of the attic. He hefts up a couple canvas stretchers.

"Thank you, Sam," I say, rummaging around to uncover my paint box, and palette as well, "And honestly, I don't mind Katharine living in my place. In fact, I'm glad she's there. I don't think I'll return."

Sam sighs, his usual cheerful countenance turning downcast, "I didn't think you would."

I nod briefly and make my way down the stairs.

I accept Joan's quick goodbye and box of leftovers before climbing into the car sent over by Nancy. The stretchers refuse to fit in the trunk so I find myself sitting awkwardly in the empty backseat with only a couple wooden beams for company.

"Nice night," I say conversationally to the chauffeur. He just gives me a disdainful look from the rearview mirror.

Pulling up to Nancy's house, the glaringly obvious differences between this side of town and the narrows stand out to me unusually well. The threat to the narrows didn't effect the mansions of the Palisades at all. The butler lets me in and takes my coat, soundlessly directing me into the next room. I gesture to the driver to bring in my supplies. Nancy lounges across an ornate armchair in an elegant evening dress, casually sipping at wine. Beside her an animated fire flickers happily in the magnificent fireplace.

"Is this where you would like the portrait to be situated?" I ask, shuffling through my pack to find my sketchbook and drawing pencils.

"I had trouble deciding between the Southwestern, Manhattan, or French rooms. Finally I decided that if this was going to be a portrait for a future family, then it should be in the main room. Or perhaps we can plan yearly themed portraits if this goes well," Nancy says, gliding up from her chair. Her eyes are sparkling with amusement and anticipation.

"That would be entertaining," I say.

"Not to mention such a display would reveal Bill and I for the ostentatious millionaires we are," Nancy laughs.

"Now we can't have that since you have been hiding it so well," I tease.

Nancy hovers over me as I lay out my easel and large sketchbook.

"How does this work?" Nancy asks, "As surprising as it may sound, I've never done anything like this before."

"Rather than pretending to be an expert…and as your friend, honestly, I've never done a commissioned portrait before either. I've painted during plenty of live model sessions, however, so I'll follow that process," I confess, "Now, for this first session I'd like to start with some layout sketches. So do you have an idea of how you'd like to be sitting? Or do you want me to position everything?"

"Oh, you can," Nancy says, sailing back over to the chair.

I get up and, waving Nancy away, push and pull the chair into the exact right position. Composition is a tricky thing: you have to try it before you can figure out if it'll work or not. Multiple times I end up running back to the easel, checking my frame, and then adjusting one more detail. Once I'm satisfied with the look I snap a photo and show it to Nancy.

"It's lovely!" she exclaims, "I resemble the stuffy women in ancient oil portraits."

I grin sheepishly and begin to sketch.

"Can I talk during this time?" Nancy asks, sitting straight up in what must be an uncomfortably stiff position.

"Yes, please relax," I say, suppressing a laugh, "I'm not focusing on details at the moment. These are thumbnail sketches and they'll help me get the overall feeling of the painting."

Explaining the rather intuitive process of painting has always been rather difficult for me. But nonetheless, I always seem to try.

"Thank goodness," Nancy says, letting out a deep breath. Her position shifts subtly into a more natural pose.

"How have things been since…well…" I begin to say, then stop myself realizing the subject of Earle's termination might still be too delicate.

"Bill getting himself fired was the best thing that could happen to me," Nancy says bluntly, bypassing any niceties.

"Good," I say, slightly startled.

"Honestly, it forced me to get stop wallowing in "what-if"s and "someday"s. I have a job now. With the Lawton Corporation."

"Really? Isn't that one of the…."

"Largest corporations in Gotham? Second only to Wayne Enterprises?" Nancy nods emphatically.

"Wow. That's a huge deal."

"Well, truthfully I'm only an executive of a subsidiary company run by George Lawton's wife Genevieve. Genevieve and I met during my interview for a much lower position, and instantly felt a connection. Together we'll turn the company into much more than Bill or George could ever imagine."

"Sounds as if you have a plan."

"You would adore her, Lyn. Perhaps you could come with us to dinner tomorrow so you can meet her," Nancy suggests.

"I don't know, I'm fairly busy."

"Afterwards we'll be attending the Gotham Art Museum's unveiling of the recently reclaimed painting American Gotham. The painting will be returning to Gotham City after many years. Some say the event will be better publicized and noteworthy than the Biennale coming up this month. Seems to me, an artist such as yourself, would be loath to miss an opportunity like this." Nancy grins and gives me a teasing wink.

"The offer is very tempting," I say, laughing, "In fact, I'd be honored to accompany you and Genevieve."

"Perfect!" Nancy says decisively, "You'll come here straight after work to continue my portrait, and then we shall go directly to dinner."

Smiling brightly, I squirt a daub of paint onto my palette and begin work on the under painting, feeling my spirits lift considerably in anticipation of Friday.


	14. Week 2:Friday

14 My beta, Kiz, is currently very busy so I'm posting with only my editing…so if you spot errors blame me (and any constructive criticism will be especially appreciated for the next few chapters! :D ) Apologies for the long wait as always. Oh school, how I love you.

Friday

I never expected to run into Anna Ramirez again. Least of all to read about her on the front page of the newspaper. But as I sit at my desk Friday morning, going through the usual routine, I pick up the _Gotham Daily_ and am greeted with the smiling, handsome face of Harvey Dent juxtaposed against a scowling snapshot of Ramirez.

"Internal Investigation Reveals Hidden Mob Connections," I read aloud.

The article exposes questionable discoveries made by Mr. Dent. One of which links Ramirez to a protection racket. My mind flicks back to the image of Ramirez courageously stepping out onto the roof when none of us knew what was up there. I find it hard to believe she could be capable of dealing with the mob.

Someone clears their throat in front of me and I glance up, pushing my glasses back onto the bridge of my nose. "Yes?" I ask.

"Crime seems to be following you lately. Bad luck and coincidence? Or should we be doing a background check on you?" Anna Ramirez gives me a lopsided grin, but the lively energy I observed during our past two meetings seems somewhat subdued.

I suppose that's to be expected, considering what I just read.

"Been reading the paper, I see," Ramirez notes.

"Yeah, but everyone knows it's all a bunch of exaggerations anyway," I say, shoving _Gotham Daily_ into a desk drawer and grinning falsely.

Ramirez pulls out a notepad and pen, "My partner and I are here at Wayne Enterprises to investigate the break in yesterday. According to Mr. Fox the security system malfunctioned, hence the lack of alarm. Kitch, however, believes this was an inside job. He's on the above floors talking to the hundreds of people who were in the building at around noon."

From her sarcastic tone and barely concealed eye-roll, I can tell Ramirez disagrees with her partner on this point.

"I say, if this 'man in black' can turn the security system of Arkham inside out, destroying Wayne Tower's security system would be a walk in the park," Ramirez continues, "So where were you? Since you were also involved with the other incident…whether unrelated or not, that puts you on the suspect list."

"Except I was the one who alerted Mr. Wayne to the burglary," I point out.

"And you were also the one who alerted Detective Allen and I to the dark figure on top of the roof."

"There's security camera proof this man was here. And he was not in black."

"I know," Ramirez says, "Like I said, I think my partner is off on this one. I believe you're innocent." She eyes the stack of newspapers on my desk. "Instead of focusing on the rubbish in _Gotham Daily_," she shuffles through and tosses one of the art papers into my arms, "take a look at that front page cover."

"Man in Black Turns Gotham Art Museum Upside Down - Literally," I read, "You've got to be kidding."

"Every painting in the place, flipped over it's head. And not a single piece actually stolen. Well, I say every piece, really they're just guessing on the abstract art."

"What sort of thief flips paintings upside down and leaves them?"

"A true Gotham City Criminal. In other words, an utterly insane one," Ramirez says, smirking, "Did you see his photo?"

In the photo a dark shadow stands between the man and woman in the American Gotham painting.

"Man…in black. I get it," I say, "The newspaper writers are very creative."

"Lieutenant Gordon's idea actually. This Jacob Feely is so focused on becoming well known, Gordon thinks we shouldn't give him that opportunity. He left his calling card of blue screens frozen on every computer in the building, but we didn't give him the satisfaction of releasing the information to the press."

"That happened in Applied Sciences too. It took Mr. Fox all night to get the server up and running again."

"If you ask me, this might be a good case for the Batman to take on," Ramirez confides. She's about to elaborate when we're interrupted by a pleasant looking man in a trench coat.

"Anything?" Ramirez asks.

He shakes his head, his mouth stretching into a frustrated line.

"Who?" I ask.

"Oh, " Ramirez says, noticing me eyeing the man, "Detective Stan Kitch, this is Lyn Pearl, head of Archives and Applied Sciences. She's the one who witnessed Feely's burglary. Lyn, meet Stan Kitch. He's…filling in for Crispus." Ramirez looks down, avoiding my gaze.

"Nice to meet you," I say, holding out a hand, "I was unaware Detective Ramirez had a new partner."

"Ramirez continues to contest it, but the truth is Detective Allen shot and killed a man. He's been temporarily relieved of duty while his case is investigated.," Kitch says.

"He acted in self defense. There should be nothing to investigate," Ramirez says, eyes narrowing.

"I know, but with old Two-Face on the case, you can bet he'll make it as complicated as he can with extra flair and press coverage," Kitch taps the stack of newspapers.

"Two-Face?" I ask.

"Harvey Dent," Ramirez snorts derisively, "You met him the other day. Handsome, charming, a face you can't forget."

"Harvey Dent. I remember," I pull _Gotham Daily_ back out of the drawer and stare down into Dent's pearly whites, "He seems to be honestly trying to clean up Gotham City. What can be so bad about that? At least he's not part of the corrupt."

Ramirez bristles at my remark.

"Dent's motives are somewhat questionable. Is he campaigning for the clean up of Gotham City for the sake of Gotham City, or for personal self-satisfaction?" Kitch explains, placing a comforting hand on Ramirez's shoulder.

"You're saying he's not two-faced as in false, but instead…"

"And arrogant idealist," Ramirez says bluntly.

"He can't be that bad," I protest.

"My partner tends to exaggerate," Kitch says, "But we should move on. There's nothing pointing to Feely's whereabouts here. But it does look fairly clear Feely is the one responsible for the flamboyant crimes happening lately."

Before the two detectives go, I accidentally let slip a silly request I've been considering since yesterday's ordeal.

"Anna, may I sketch your portrait? For my own records?" I ask, holding up my book.

She looks startled by my slightly eccentric request.

"I suppose," she says, chuckling, "Though I don't see why."

Kitch raises a skeptical eyebrow, his expression making it clear he considers this a waste of time.

"You go on, Stan. Tell Gordon I'm taking my break," Anna says.

"You don't have to do that. If it's too much trouble, just pretend I never asked," I protest.

"No, I'd be glad to," Anna says, "Come, lets have lunch."

I follow Anna out of Wayne Tower and down a couple side streets to a quiet bar.

"Allen, Wuertz, and I frequent this place," Anna explains, holding open the door for me, "They have good hamburgers."

We sit down at a table in the empty room, while the bartender calls out a greeting. He walks over and takes our order, still distracted by the TV. Above the bar, standing on a pedestal, talking to an adoring crowd, is Harvey Dent. He introduces Commissioner Loeb, who takes the podium.

"Harvey Dent's stand against corruption in Gotham City gives Gotham hope. As an Internal Investigator, Dent has helped to put many people involved in organized crime behind bars, which unfortunately includes a few dishonest cops. Thanks to Dent, I can assure you, all efforts are being directed towards rooting out the cooks in Gotham's Police. Thank you," Commissioner Loeb steps down and Dent takes his place.

"Kind of ironic, coming from him," Anna remarks over Dent's speech.

It was common knowledge that Commissioner Loeb had friends in high places. What some people were either blissfully ignorant of, or choosing to remain blind, was that some of these friends were mobsters, most notably Carmine Falcone. Of course, nothing could be proven.

I nod, "And what about Dent?"

Anna sighs, swirling the water in her glass. She glances back at the TV, as if able to discern Dent's personality from the screen. "He means well, I'll admit. I suppose I'm just having a bad week - or year."

"Clearly, his accusations against you were false," I say, gesturing to the badge she still carries.

Anna hums an assent, and picks up her burger.

"What's been happening this week?" I ask, pulling out my sketchbook.

Therapy is now in session.

"Well, Dent's been the worst pain in my side," Anna grunts, glaring at the TV, "But the persistent ache is my mother. Her being sick is just…it's hard," Ramirez confides, "Nothing new, but when something little happens, it exasperates the situation and everything explodes."

"What does your mother have?"

"Breast cancer. And old age. Plus the city has worn her down beyond her years," Anna says.

"She's here in Gotham?"

"In the hospital. In addition to topping the crime rate charts, Gotham also tops the cancer research charts. Unfortunately."

"Unfortunately. Big cities, lots of money for research, I guess. Is the cancer so bad she can't live at home with you?"

"She needs someone to be there with her and take care of her. And I'm running around all day, getting calls in the middle of the night. My job prevents me from being there for her."

I nod sympathetically.

"The stress and worries over her wellbeing are bad enough. The medical bills round everything out nicely. And now my job is being threatened by Dent. Honestly, can you blame me for feeling less than happy with him at the moment?"

"I'd hate his guts if I were in your position," I say, smiling lopsidedly.

"He needs to focus on the real criminals. Not detectives and cops trying to barely scrape out a living."

"Aren't there charities to help with the cancer treatment?"

"A few little ones. Gotham has no large organizations. Perhaps the crime rate scared them away."

"I'll look into it in the Archives and see what I can uncover. There might be something," I promise Anna.

Evening finds me once again ensconced in Nancy's mansion, surrounded by paint. The under painting and sketches are going really well. Nancy approves, Bill approves, and even I am somewhat satisfied by my work. Nancy's ability to hold a natural pose for so long helps greatly. I'm already imaging how hard a subject Bill will be, however. Bill, unlike Nancy, dislikes sitting around doing nothing for any length of time. Nancy tells me he hasn't watched an entire movie straight through in years. And heaven forbid if he takes a break from job hunting through his networks to watch TV.

"He allows himself one hour of reading time, everyday," Nancy says, artfully remaining perfectly frozen while talking, "And one hour for dinner. But half the time he contrives to merge meals and work into the constant stream of 'business dinners' I have to put up with. Which is why you, Genevieve, and I are going out tonight. If I have to smile ear-to-ear at another dimwitted twenty-something hanging off of one of Bill's fifty-something business friends, I'll loose it and…tell them what I really think of them."

"Horrors!" I say in mock fright. I smile mischievously, "Ever consider actually doing it?"

"And cause Bill to lose even more of his social standing? I'd rather not be accused of sabotage."

"How can you business people stand it? Smiling and nodding at everyone, then turning around and smearing them behind their back."

"It doesn't quite work that way. Perhaps if you're ever in business, you'll understand."

"It's all one big act."

Nancy laughs, "Such insight! Such deep thinking, profound wisdom!"

I mime a paintbrush flick in her direction.

She lifts herself up off the chair and examines the painting. Her laughter fades to silence and she stands in front of the canvas for a couple minutes, just looking.

"The likeness is almost uncanny. And it's still without a face," Nancy says softly, "Why don't you do more of this?"

"I never thought I'd enjoy it. The idea of a commission is so…restricted."

"I swear to you…continue to do paintings with equivalent skill, and you'll never need to work for Wayne Enterprises again."

"I enjoy working in the archives," I protest.

"Oh please," Nancy scoffs, "You looked bored out of your mind while accompanying Chad to those banquets and functions. Of course, now you seem a lot more interested. And I don't think it's your work that has brought about such a sudden change." She sweeps out of the room, waving me to follow, "Come along, Genevieve will be here any minute now and I want to dress you up a bit."

Nancy forces me into a dress, heels, and more make-up than I've worn in my life. The moment Nancy pronounces me beautiful enough for the high-class restaurant we are going to, the butler knocks to alert us to Mrs. Genevieve Lawton's presence downstairs. With one last adjustment to her already perfect coiffure, the two of us go to greet Nancy's guest.

In the main room, Genevieve Lawton, a stately woman in her 50's, stands in front of my painting, carefully admiring it. Nancy immediately skips up to her and enthusiastically starts praising my work. I hang back, feeling woefully inadequate and out of place.

"Lyn, allow me to introduce you to Genevieve," Nancy says, abruptly remembering my existence, "Genevieve, this is the artist." Nancy smiles proudly at me.

"The painting seems to be going along wonderfully," Genevieve says, "I'd love to see it finished."

"Then we must get together again, soon," Nancy takes Genevieve by the arm and leads her to the door, "But for now, I'm famished. Lets go to the restaurant, shall we?"

The butler holds the front door open, the chauffeur holds the car door open, and the waiter holds the restaurant door open for the three of us. The evening rushes by me in a whirlwind of good food and idle chit chat. Often I find my mind wandering. But Nancy and Genevieve take no notice of my occasional glazed over eyes and lack of conversation. Both are the type of people who enjoy talking, so to discover someone who will listen - or at least look as if they're listening - is novel and interesting.

"Lyn, you really are a sweet girl. How old are you? Just out of college?" Genevieve asks, taking another sip of wine.

Her comment catches my attention, leaving me blinking and wondering what exactly it meant.

"No, Genevieve. She's 30," Nancy says, laughing.

"29," I correct quietly.

"You look so young!" Genevieve exclaims, "Perhaps it's something in your manner." She trails off, trying to think hard about the question of my age…and failing.

"Why don't you paint Genevieve's portrait after you finish with mine?" Nancy suggests, "I've been thinking…with you're skill and my connections…we could turn this into a legitimate business."

"Wonderful idea," Genevieve says, "I'd love to have Lyn paint my portrait. Perhaps it could be a family portrait with George and the boys."

"I'd hardly call them 'boys' anymore, Genevieve," Nancy corrects, "Isn't Floyd at least twenty-five by now?"

"Indeed. Floyd's…27 and Edward is 31," Genevieve says, laughing, "Saying that makes me feel old."

"Never old," Nancy proclaims, joining in the laughter, "We're both young and pretty, and will forever remain so."

"Of course, I probably only have a decade or so more to live," Genevieve says lightly, as if imminent death was a topic of conversation brought up all the time during a fancy dinner.

"What are you talking about," Nancy scoffs, "You're in perfect health. So unless you're planning on getting hit by a train anytime soon, I can't imagine why…"

"I'm turning 60 next year," Genevieve says, sighing dramatically, "In my family, turning seventy is a death sentence. Breast Cancer took my mother and her mother before her."

Genevieve's confession sends Nancy and I into a stunned silence. The way Genevieve talked about her mother's and grandmother's disease was unnerving. She announced it in an almost unfeeling, careless way.

"I'm so sorry," I say, a feeble offer of condolences, "Cancer is horrible. I was just talking today to someone who has to watch her mother fade away from the disease."

"Which is all the more reason to record my family in an oil painting, which judging from the antiquity of paintings hanging in galleries, obviously lasts for years after the owner is gone," Genevieve says, her entire demeanor transitioning from self-pity to confidence in the blink of an eye.

"And undoubtedly you'll be remembered in history after Lynnet becomes a famous artist," Nancy says, jumping at the chance to return the conversation to a lighter subject. She winks at me, "Of course, you'll have to die first. We all know artists don't truly become famous until after their time."

I offer up my best attempt at a half smile in the face of her ludicrous suggestion.

"I certainly hope I'll be remembered in history for more than a mere painting," Genevieve says, looking scandalized, "Being as active as I am in charities and funds has it's merits."

Nancy and Genevieve go on to discuss the advantages of making large donations while I stare quietly at the woman who so easily laughs at the prospect of death. In fact, I don't say another word until it is time to leave for the museum. As usual, I'm lost in thought, my mind wandering while my body takes care of the boring details of walking, getting into a car, and continually looking interested in what the women are chattering about.

When we reach the Gotham Art Museum, the gothic revival building buzzes with activity. I had no idea gallery openings could be so lively. Usually, when I visit galleries, I enjoy walking from work to work, taking everything in silently. Afterwards I'm willing to discuss my opinions and observations, but in the gallery my thoughts are between me and the art, no one else. The first hint that something has obviously gone horribly wrong is the police cars blocking the way to the front door. Nancy and Genevieve remark angrily about having to get out two blocks early, but are so entranced by the exciting prospect of seeing news in action, walk to the museum with very little complaint. As for myself, I'm guilty of watching everything with a haughty distance. It doesn't occur to anyone to ask the archivist who reads the paper everyday what's is going on.

"Officer!" Genevieve stops a policeman in the middle of the street, "Is the gallery opening closed?"

"Nope," the officer says, looking bewildered, "Nothing's stolen. Went through the whole gallery. No clues, no theft, no nothing. And they think it's a big game." his emphasis on the word 'they' makes it clear he considers the society folk inside the gallery foolishly volatile.

Nancy and Genevieve do not wait to hear what actually went on inside the museum. Instead they drag me up the front steps and into the crowded foyer. Gossip about the evening's event rattles the room. I try to edge away from Nancy and Genevieve to escape, but fail miserably. A woman I don't recognize comes up to Genevieve.

"Did you hear, some prankster turned every painting upside down without tripping the security system," the woman looks ecstatic about the prospect, "Isn't that amazing!"

To my surprise, Nancy and Genevieve respond not with reproach, but laughter. I find the idea of manhandling paintings horrific. Nancy finally notices my less than happy expression.

"Oh dear. I'm sorry Lyn," she gives me an overly sympathetic look, "Lyn, here is an artist. Some of these paintings were probably her friends."

Genevieve and mystery woman laugh at my expense. I half grimace and attempt a chuckle.

"Who did it?" Nancy asks the woman.

"No one knows! A complete enigma," the woman says breathlessly, "I think it was done in good sport. Anyone who was serious about robbing the place would have taken the paintings."

"Indeed, perhaps the con artist is a dissatisfied art critic. Or a real artist who's work was refused entry to the gallery," I suggest sarcastically, raising an eyebrow, "Or both. Can robbery be considered an art?"

The three of them gape at me as if I'm an alien from another planet.

"I'll be in the abstract art exhibit," I say, "It would be sacrilegious to view any other paintings in their current state." I leave the women to their gossip and make my way to the top floor through the crowd. Thankfully the dubious popularity of the more modern art results in an emptier gallery. I stroll past the art, nearly cracking up at the sight of a paper note affixed to the square, blank canvas that says "This is upside down too". Just in case the gallery workers can't figure it out, I guess. Though, probably, the artist put a sign on the back saying "this way up".

I'm standing in front of Chuck Close's paintings, trying to decide if I actually find the mixture of colors even more fascinating upside down when I sense someone come up behind me. Unconsciously, I'm immediately on my guard. Being alone in a gallery that has just been desecrated by a thief and potential murderer can do that to you.

"I do believe Feely has managed to make Close's work resemble random blobs of color even more so than before. Quite a feat."

"Bruce Wayne, are you not a fan of Chuck Close?" I say, turning around and smirking at him.

"I…appreciate his dedication to his work," Bruce says, trying to look sincere.

I laugh his comment off, "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be off catching this thief?" I tease.

"I think I can give him a head start," Bruce says, "He turned the paintings upside down Lyn, he didn't steal anything."

"It's the principle of the thing," I argue.

"Right, I forgot. You're an artist," Bruce's face breaks into a smile.

"So people keep saying."

"I'd guess an artist would be more…sensitive to something like this."

"First, turning paintings upside down. Second, rearranging them. Third, taking a knife and ripping it through the canvas. How far will you let Feely go?"

"As soon as the appropriate time presents itself to abandon this social function, I'll go after him. I promise."

"Thank you," I say graciously, "And when you leave, please take me with you. I don't think I can stand much more of this." I tilt my head sideways to look at the giant upside down face in front of us.

Bruce just laughs, studying me as I study the painting. I can feel his eyes, not to mention his physical presence, directly behind me. Could he be as aware of the very short distance between us as I am?

"Lyn…you look…lovely tonight."

I guess he is.

I swivel around, at a loss for words. We stare at one another with identical wondering, slightly dreamy expressions. For a moment the entire night feels almost poetic.

Then the evil, practical, pinprick of a spot in my brain sends me an image of Rachel, popping my bubble of hope in an instant.

"You can thank Nancy Earle for that," I joke casually.

In the silence that follows, I become hyperaware of the distant chatter of museum patrons and guests.

"Bruce, would you be interested in starting a Cancer charity here in Gotham?" I ask, bringing up a subject plaguing my mind since Anna first mentioned it.

"The thought hadn't occurred to me. Why do you ask?" he looks at me, concerned, yet also relieved at the change in subject.

"I've just…been talking to some people."

Bruce's apparent interest increases.

"Some of whom could really use help with medical bills," I say, "And others, I suppose, who don't need anything. But nonetheless, the point still stands."

"Would this be money for research, or for paying bills?" Bruce asks seriously considering the idea.

"I think bills, mostly. But definitely any extra funds could go towards research."

"Do you think you could run the charity?"

"Me?"

"Yes. It was your idea."

"I…don't' know," I stammer, feeling slightly overwhelmed. I hadn't expected to be offered such a position, "Not with the amount of work I already have."

"You could act as some sort of representative then. Honestly Lyn, it's a good idea. But one that requires a lot of thought and effort. Probably more than you realize."

I could hear a slightly patronizing tone in Bruce's voice, "I was proposing the idea, nothing more. I don't expect anything. It was just a thought."

"Who do you know is having trouble?" Bruce asks, furrowing his brow, "I can help."

"I don't know them all that well…we just met. It's not really my place to bring her up by name," I say, trying to decide how Anna Ramirez would react to a billionaire playboy paying off her mother's debts.

Bruce sighs, "They're not someone who would look behind the image and accept the offer for what it is: a generous gift."

"I don't think so," I admit honestly.

Bruce appears to be genuinely disappointed by my refusal.

"Ever thought of giving up the act?" I ask, even while knowing the answer.

He gives me a lopsided grin, "Nope."

I grin back, "Come see this painting over here, I think the new rotation actually did it a world of good."

He laughs at the change of subject, yet still follows me down the Modern Art hallway. I stop in front of one of the few completely abstract paintings I truly admire. Mostly because although appearing to be merely layers and layers of paint, there is a rhythm and winding composition to it that is only revealed through careful study. Up or down, the composition remains the same.

"See this? The artist used oils, straw, and beeswax. Can you make out the figure eight in the composition?"

"I see," Bruce says, a slight sarcastic tone to his voice.

"You don't enjoy abstract art at all do you?"

"I don't understand it."

"At least you admit it," I pull out my sketchbook, pull him down onto the bench next to me and hand him the book, "Draw it."

"What?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

"It's what my teacher told me when I first visited the Museum of Modern Art in New York. She made me sit down and sketch. Told me that only after I tried to replicate it would I truly get over my misconceptions and see the painting."

Bruce gamely takes my proffered pencil and sketchbook. He flips it open to a new page and begins to draw. I watch him over his shoulder, realizing with a little bit of jealousy, that the perfect Bruce Wayne may have even been a wonderful artist had he chosen to pursue such a career. The natural way he begins with the full page, rather than concentrating on a tiny portion is a technique many artists take years to perfect.

"There," Bruce passes the book back to me.

"No, you're not done yet. Can't you see the subtle variations of light and dark. Include those in your sketch."

Bruce silently takes the book back and continues the sketch. This time he gets caught in it; I can tell by intensity of his focus. I catch myself before excitedly breaking his concentration. After a couple minutes he holds the sketchbook at a distance and turns it upside down.

"Still can't see it," he drops the book on my lap and stands up from the bench.

"Are you kidding?" I ask, following him to the next painting, "Don't tell me you can draw this and still feel nothing for the painting."

"Should I give you and the painting some time alone?" Bruce asks in mock concern.

I give him a death glare. I've had enough of the comments about my relationships with paintings.

Bruce shifts in place, clearly deciding to change tactics, "You thought the drawing was good?"

"Good? If it was any better I'd wonder which one of us it was who took as many art courses as they could in college," I say.

"Not me. I took every science course possible where the creative aspects were severely limited."

"Which is probably why your heroic costume is so dull."

"A few days ago you told me to get rid of the yellow."

"Because it stands out from the depressing expanse of black. If you're going for emo, at least get it right."

"Emo?"

"Emotional? Nevermind. Have you ever considered the possibility of crime being art?"

"What?"

"It's another thing I was just thinking about."

"Remind me to never ask what's on your mind."

"Seriously, what Jacob Feely did here was pretty creative. If self mutilation of the Chris Burden flavor is art, why can't stealing or breaking and entering be art?"

"Would you say murder is art?"

"For the sake of controversy, why not."

"You don't mean that."

"No, but I also don't think what Burden does is art. Yet I can still see the critics point of view. High art is supposed to be controversial. It's some kind of unwritten Art with a capital A rule."

"Murder is not art."

"Yet murder is often portrayed in all forms of art," I protest, "Why can a poetic death not be a form of art?"

"Poetic death and murder are two completely different ideas."

"So if I were to die a poetic death right now, what would it be?"

Bruce laughs incredulously, "You're not making sense."

"I'd be dead either way, so does it really matter?"

"Do all artists do this?"

"Do what?"

"Examine life and the universe in flippant conversation?"

"It's probably fairly common in art collectives, yes," I laugh, "Should anything in life be taken seriously?"

"There are many things that need to be taken seriously," Bruce says with a very sever face.

"Laugh, Bruce," I tease, "I'll admit, I'm examining life in jest."

Bruce permits himself a smile.

Suddenly a door behind us slams open and a man comes pelting out. A man dressed entirely in black. I stiffen in fright, stepping slightly behind Bruce. The man in black skids to a stop after seeing my face.

"Well, if it isn't Lynnet Pearl," he says. Although covered with a black mask, I can sense the smile on his face.

"Jacob Feely," I greet him, recognizing the voice.

"Did you enjoy my little rearrangement of the exhibit?" He asks. Through the slits in the mask I can see his eyes flit from me, to Bruce, and back.

"Since you did not harm any of the paintings, I found it vaguely amusing. However, I believe many of the paintings prior to the cubist movement did not deserve to be turned upside down."

"I wouldn't dream of damaging an old masterpiece. Some paintings in the gallery, however, were found to be lacking," he glances at the blank canvas with his post-it note tacked to it.

A small grin escapes me.

"I thought an artist such as yourself would see my side of things," Feely says.

Bruce takes a small step forward, clenching his fists. He shows remarkable restraint in not trying to apprehend Feely here and now. Unfortunately, he'll have to wait until he's properly costumed.

"I think your boyfriend here is jealous," Feely says. He pulls a gun out and aims it at Bruce, "Wallet, please."

To me he continues in a much more pleasant voice, "I'm not interested in the art. It's completely useless to me. I had planned to rob the obscenely rich gallery goers from the start."

"Feely, don't," I start to say, taking Bruce's arm. I'm not sure who I'm trying to prevent from doing something incredibly stupid: Bruce or Feely.

"I said give me your wallet," his voice is no longer mischievous, but instead contains a hint of a threat. Neither Bruce nor Feely are paying any attention to me. I tighten my grip on Bruce's arm.

After enduring a minute of staring contest, I watch in relief as Bruce hands over his wallet. Jacob Feely takes it and continues to run through the gallery.

"He does realize that's a dead end, doesn't he?" I comment.

"A dead end?" Bruce says, his voice is cold and devoid of emotion.

"This hall only leads to the stairs…and ultimately to the roof. The roof. Of course," realization dawns bright and clear.

"The jet pack," Bruce reminds me. He takes my hand off his arm and looks me straight in the face, "Stay out of this one."

Another second, and he's gone.


	15. Week 2:Saturday

15 Thank you loyal readers who haven't given up on me yet! Here's a short but sweet update. And I promise "tomorrow" in the timeline will be very exciting: Disclaimer: I don't own anything related to Batman.

I wake up at five in the morning to the sound of Bruce returning to the bat-bunker. He's horribly injured. Thankfully I'm becoming more and more used to the late nights and odd sleeping hours. And now bandaging Bruce's wounds is almost second nature to me.

"Feely?" I ask.

"Caught, at last," he says, "Though a lot more capable than he looked."

"I can tell," I say, staring at the gash I'm stitching up.

"Some kids saw me. They looked at me strangely. As if I was some kind of myth."

"To them, as Batman, you are," I remind him.

"I should be real. Something to be feared."

"As long as criminals still run from any sort of bat-shaped shadow, I don't think you need to worry about not being feared."

Bruce smirks at me.

"All better now," I tease, patting his arm in a motherly way, "Try not to get so many scrapes next time you go out."

"I'm beginning to be very grateful I hired you," Bruce says, flexing his arm carefully, "Alfred is good, but his sarcastic comments are usually ten times the amount of yours."

"Speaking of…where is Alfred?"

"Probably bringing my breakfast tray into my room as we speak. Once again he'll be frustrated to find my bed not slept in. In an hour or so he will show up with a to-go box full of muffins and protein shakes, and will remind me of my fancy penthouse apartment that I spend so little time in."

"You miss your manor. I understand the feeling," I say, "I plan to move into a fancy apartment myself someday soon. But as nice as they are, none of them are my home."

"The manor was never my home either."

"So you keep saying. Will the new manor be your home, even though it's exactly the same?"

"Exactly the same?"

"Isn't that what you said?"

"I decided on adding a few improvements. That area can be my home," he smiles cryptically.

"You truly are turning into a bat."

"Who says the improvements have anything to do with Batman?"

"Lucky guess," I say, "What are you planning exactly?"

"A paradox: an ancient cave filled with the latest technology money can buy."

Bruce returns to his computer, pulling up some web research.

"If you're apartment hunting," he says, "Would you mind digging up information about this development project?"

I pull up a chair and read through the information on screen.

"Ron Marshall of Marshall Construction Company," I say, "He plans to demolish an entire slum section and replace it with expensive apartments. Why would I want to live there?"

"You wouldn't. But those people living in the slums are going to be displaced. And something about the whole situation feels off. I need you to investigate."

"Okay," I agree, "But Chad is going to think I've gone even more insane than usual." A smile creeps over my face, urging Bruce to find humor despite his dark mood. I succeed.

"How is living with Chad going, anyway?" Bruce asks, the mocking look returning to his face.

"I'm enjoying it," I say defensively. He raises an eyebrow.

"I am," I insist, "Chad's place is very comfortable. And he completely ignores my nightly forays over at Eleanor's. So, you should be glad I'm staying with him and not with some infallible gossip. Like, say, Mary."

"I am grateful. But frankly, after observing him during meetings, I find Chad boring."

"Just because he doesn't fly off to Europe every weekend, or date movie stars doesn't make him boring. In fact, I think the Bruce Wayne charade is a lot more boring than Chad. Chad and I have…discussions. And Debates."

"Discussions and debates? Fascinating."

"Yes, about history, and philosophy, and the arts. Well, okay, not so much the arts, but that's only because Chad can't appreciate modern art. Like you, actually."

"Let's discuss history then. Pick a topic."

I laugh in disbelief, "What would you possibly have to say about history?"

"I enjoyed learning about the industrial revolution."

"Indeed. A wonderful time period full of progress. Except everyone forgets to mention the average laborer, exploited for the sake of modern technology."

"Modern technology which has improved the lives of thousands."

"And decimated the lives of thousands more," I exaggerate, feeling provoked by Bruce's infernally smug smile.

"We could all go back to living in caves. It's worked for me so far."

"This time you're the one not being serious," I remind him, "And anyway, Chad and I don't just talk. We do things together. Normal things, such as going to the library, or going apartment hunting."

"I can go apartment hunting with you," Bruce says, his face resembling a wounded puppy.

"Apartment hunting? Bruce, you would stick out like a sore thumb. My point is: it's nice to meet exciting people, or spend a couple hours with them here and there. But it's the boring people you want to live with."

"Or you could stubbornly attach yourself to an exciting lifestyle of part time crime fighting."

"Well, yes."

"Why did you?"

"Honestly I have no idea. Normally I would rather have a slower lifestyle that occasionally changes, but mostly is just one big routine. It makes the changes that much more special."

"You sound like a hallmark card."

"And you're the opposite of a hallmark card. So who's happier?"

"Isn't this a philosophical discussion?" Bruce asks, changing subject suddenly.

"What?"

"You told me you couldn't have a philosophical discussion with me, but here we are. Having one."

I search for words. Finally I say the best comeback I can think of, "With you it's always an argument."

"Or debate."

"An argument. In a debate, both sides respect each other," I say, getting up and collecting my things to leave.

"I respect you."

"And I certainly respect you, Mr. Wayne. But I believe you enjoy winding me up too much to truly respect me."

Bruce chuckles and wheels the motorcycle out of the garage, "Come on. You're tired. I'll take you home."

"Not home. To Chad's." I remind him.

Hours later, much more awake and refreshed, Chad and I drive around the city touring apartments. The first one gleams like new on the outside, but is falling apart on the inside. The second apartment is nice but impossibly expensive. The third one was a condo obviously intended for a family. The real estate agent running the open house made the embarrassing mistake of assuming Chad and I were a couple. She smiled at us and told us of all the wonderful resources for raising kids in the neighborhood.

Chad and I left that complex rather hastily.

Yet, I doubt if Chad would have left quite so quickly if he had known the next stop on my list.

"Why did you drag me down here? You can't honestly expect to buy one of these apartments?" Chad asks me, gesturing wildly to the rundown tenements spread out in a row before us. We arrived at Bruce's suggested apartment complex to find it swarming with activity. Ron Marshall's company set up an entire campaign to support his development plan. His people navigate through the crowds, passing out flyers and answering questions. Activists follow in their wake, complaining about the ramifications to the community by destroying the housing currently on the site and handing out pamphlets of their own.

"No, Chad," I say calmly, "These are the buildings that will be torn down and replaced with a new downtown living complex."

"Torn down and replaced? How long do you intend to continue living at my place?"

"Only another couple weeks. I have another apartment lined up and ready to be bought. I just want to check out this place too. I like the location better."

"In the middle of danger?"

"Feels like home."

"Lyn, it's four streets down from crime alley."

"Well, then, that's four extra streets away from danger. Back at my old home all I had to do was walk out my door."

"Lyn!" Chad says.

"Chad," I repeat, stubbornly, "Look at the guy on the podium. Clearly, he feels there's something worthwhile in this area."

Chad reluctantly glances up at the stage. A middle-aged man begins to describe his vision for the new homes to be built.

"Right here, in downtown, we will have a neighborhood of good quality," the man, who surely must be the developer Ron Marshall, says. Only the creator of such a scheme could look so blatantly self-satisfied.7

"What about safety?" A bystander asks.

"We're working on turning the streets surrounding our new complex into the safest part of Gotham. Harvey Dent, currently running for District Attorney, fully supports my dream for a safer, cleaner Gotham. I believe in Harvey Dent, and I believe by the time these apartments are complete, we'll be living in an entirely new and reinvented city."

"And those people you're evicting? What kind of city will they live in?" a new, hostile voice yells out from the crowd. A portion of the crowd obviously agrees with her, calling out their support or booing Marshall.

"They will find new housing much better than the slums currently here."

"Will you personally guarantee that?" the same voice asks. Over the heads of the crowds I can barely make out a head of curly hair, waving a huge protest sign.

"I am afraid think a guarantee would not be realistically and financially possible…" Marshall attempts to slither out of the question, but the crowd refused to let him. Thanks to mob mentality, everything escalates to outrageous levels. Protestors begin to wave their signs threateningly at the Marshall company workers and the workers look to Marshall for direction. A discarded soda bottle flies over the crowd and hits the podium.

Marshall begins to look worried. He continues to talk, trying in vain to calm the crowd.

Paying no heed to the man on the podium, the woman continues to yell out question after question, bringing up controversial developments Marshall had proposed years prior. I move closer, intending to try to talk to her myself. She's clearly the leader, and someone who might have an insight into what might be causing Bruce's "bad feelings" about Marshall.

"And when you bulldozed the botanical gardens, did those plants find nicer, newer homes elsewhere too?" the woman yells, a sarcastic gleam in her eye. Clearly, Marshall does have an interesting past, even if it only involves killing plants.

"And the animals living in the nature preserve just outside of the city limits?" the woman asks, "I suppose you've run out of lower life forms to persecute and now you have to move on to humans, huh?"

I catch myself laughing slightly, admiring the woman's gumption.

Unfortunately, by the time I reach her the police have arrived.

"Could I talk to you?" I call out, desperately trying to get her attention.

"It'll have to wait," she says, eying the cops who are breaking up the demonstration and confiscating protest signs.

"I'd like to be more involved in your campaign," I invent an excuse.

Without warning a protestor, angry at the cops' attempts to steal his sign, bashes a cop on the head with the wood. The officer reacts instinctively, ripping the sign from the protester's hands, tossing it to the ground, and trying to grab hold of the protestor.

Immediately pandemonium breaks out.

"Are you happy, Marshall?" the woman yells at the stage, "Is this what you hoped for in calling the police?"

Giving up on talking to the woman, I frantically search for Chad in order to leave. I can hear his voice in the distance, mixed up with the sounds of the protestors and cops. All of the potential buyers, Marshall's intended audience, are gone. I'm left desperately following the leader as she runs through the crowd, obviously headed in a specific direction. We're almost out of the mob when I'm suddenly jerked backwards by my jacket. I flail wildly, putting up a fairly good fight and managing to slip out of the grip - right into the arms of a different cop.

An arm shoots out and punches my captor in the face. Shocked, I stand frozen in place and staring at the cop on the ground, but a strong hand insistently pulls me away.

"Apartment shopping is a lot more exciting than you led me to believe," a voice says from behind a familiar orange hood as we force our way out of the crowd, side by side.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, annoyed.

"Getting you out of a mess, as usual," Bruce says, pulling off his sunglasses and smiling at me.

"Thanks, but I think I was doing okay on my own. And why did you send me here if you had planned to come all along?"

"I hadn't. But you said I wasn't the type to go apartment hunting so…"

"So you had to prove me wrong. I get it."

I pull my hand out of his and turn in the direction of Chad's car.

"I'm going to find Chad," I call back to him.

"Wait, Lyn," Bruce says, catching my hand again, "I actually do need you to talk to the leader of the protest. Teresa Williams. She's stubborn, opinionated, and can give you all the dirt on Ron Marshall. You'll like her."

He points in the opposite direction.

"Okay. What are you going to do?" I ask.

"Follow my new friend who is going to lead me to the scarecrow's hideout. He also led me here," Bruce says, beckoning to someone behind me, "Bob, meet Lyn."

I turn around to see homeless Bob waving franticly in my direction, "We've met," I say.

"Good," Bruce says, seeming unsurprised by my friendship with a homeless man, "Now go, before Teresa leaves."

I wave to Bob, and run after the woman. I catch up with her and a small group of other protestors in an alley between two of the slum sections.

"Marshall is trying to silence us again. He knows we have the support of both the mayor and, despite the rumors Marshall is spreading, the runner up for the next DA."

Her eyes glance my way when I step out into the open. The crowd around her begins to disperse, probably heading to their cars or the train station.

"Aren't you the woman who wanted to talk to me?" Theresa asks, walking up to me.

"Yes," I answer, "You're Teresa Williams, correct?"

She nods.

"I'm, doing an article for the _Gotham Daily_, and I was wondering if you would grant an interview?" I lie blatantly, hoping for a chance to talk with her alone.

"I thought you said you were interested in joining the cause?" she asks, suspicious.

"Hence the reason behind the article. I know your group needs publicity. Because if anything on your protest had been in the papers, I would have known about it."

"How did you find out about us?"

"Through friends."

"Who? I know most of the people around here."

"Well, I live - lived - in the narrows. So it's gone through a rather long chain," I say, offering a harmless smile.

"Okay. But not now. Can we meet sometime? I'll give you my number."

"Sure. That would be great." I jot her number down on a blank sheet in my sketchbook and bid the group goodbye.

Thankfully the site of the protest has mostly cleared by the time I make it back to Chad's car. He and a couple of police men are standing around. The cops' gestures and calming voices make it clear they're trying to calm Chad down. When Chad spots me he immediately cries out and runs over to me.

"Where did you get to? I was worried," Chad says.

"I'm fine. We can leave now. I just got lost in the confusion," I assure him.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Chad asks, hovering over me.

"I told you I am. I'm a little shaken up, though. Let's just give up the search for the day. All other apartments would pale in comparison, anyway."

"Pale in comparison? Did you hit your head during the protest?"

"No, I just like the idea of living in such an exciting area," I tease.

Chad laughs, breaking the tension between us.

"Can you drop me off at Nancy's?" I ask, "She'll probably want to continue her portrait."

"Of course," Chad says, "You know, since I've been letting you stay at my place for so long, do you think you could paint me a life-size portrait for my apartment? I think it would go rather well with the décor."

"I'll add you to the waiting list," I tell him, grinning.


	16. Week 2:Sunday Part I

A/N Sorry if this isn't the usual caliber of writing…everything seems to be going wrong lately and I just needed an escape. This story will continue because I love writing it so much but it may take a while longer than I expected. (though this summer I'll have all the time in the world since every single internship I applied to fell flat…maybe the universe is trying to give me a hint)

And thank you to everyone who has been reading, and, reviewing and, faving despite my long absence! Hugs to you all!

Without further ado, after leaving Lyn and Chad during a fruitless search for a new apartment….

CHAPTER 16(.5):

Mary wakes me up early Sunday morning, determined to take me to an afternoon charity polo tournament hosted by the youngest Lawton boy. I'm not sure if her motive consists of throwing Bruce and I together or of meeting the handsome Floyd Lawton who has appeared in so many society magazines lately.

"If the tournament is at 12:00, why in the world would I need to get up at 8?" I ask, rolling over in bed and pulling my sheets up.

"Because before the tournament we're going shopping. You need a makeover desperately, and if I want to dress to impress I'm going to need something new," Mary insists, dragging on the covers.

"I hate makeup," I mumble.

"And I intend to change that," Mary gives one last tug on my sheets, sending them flying.

"All right already. I'm awake," I groan and stumble to the bathroom.

"Don't forget to shave," Mary calls sweetly, closing the door on her way out.

An hour later I confront Chad in the kitchen.

"You had to let her in," I complain.

"It was either that or have my door knocked down," Chad protests and retreats back to his bedroom.

"Finally!" Mary exclaims, snatching up my hand and pushing my messenger bag in my face, "Lets go!"

The shopping trip blurs in my mind as an endless stream of cookie-cutter shops. The first shop that interests me is one with very bizarre looking clothes. I think my artistic sensibilities attracted me to the shop because Mary took one look and dragged me away.

"You will not be caught dead standing next to me in clashing patterns and hippy dresses," Mary berates me.

Unfortunately, my stubborn, sleepy mind locked onto that shop and the few clothes I ended up buying for myself came from there. Being an "artist" can thankfully excuse one from all horrendous fashion mistakes. All in all, I believe the shopping trip was a frustrating experience for poor Mary.

"My new sun dress is really cute, wouldn't you agree?" Mary asks at the end of the day.

"Mmhmm," I nod, only half paying attention, my eyelids drooping.

Mary sighs, "At least this wasn't a complete waste of a morning."

She spots a store off to the right, lets out a squeal of excitement, and drags me in. Still in a half day dream, I don't notice what kind of store we've gone in until I find myself surrounded by glasses.

"Mary, you don't use glasses. Why are we here?"

"Because you're getting contacts. You've talked about doing it for ages," Mary says, shoving me into the path of an optometrist.

My protests are largely ignored and by the time we leave I have two new contact lenses in my eyes, my glasses in a nice case, and an order for more.

"Who would have thought my prescription could have changed so much since high school," I remark to Mary, "It explains why I was having some trouble reading file labels on the top shelves."

Mary rolls her eyes, "My intervention almost came too late."

"So what is this charity event we're going to?" I ask once we get back to Mary's apartment.

"Don't you know? Your boyfriend is hosting it to raise money for some new cancer research charity here in Gotham."

"Chad isn't my boyfriend."

"Not Chad. I meant Bruce," Mary says, playfully hitting me with a new shirt.

"Bruce isn't my boyfriend either," I sigh.

"And you sound so much more disappointed over that fact," Mary teases.

"Billionaires don't date archivists Mary. They date super models, actresses…politicians."

"Politicians? I don't think Bruce Wayne has ever gone after a politician."

"Maybe not," I agree.

"By the time I'm done with you, he'll forget you're an archivist anyway," Mary tells me.

If I had been feeling particularly stubborn, Mary would never have gotten the chance to do my makeup. However, I was unusually complacent today, resulting in the most hideous makeup disaster I've ever seen. Or perhaps just once a small part of me wanted to impress a certain billionaire.

"I look ridiculous," I say flatly.

"You look gorgeous," Mary counters, holding up a mirror.

"Maybe some women can wear makeup, but frankly I think it makes me resemble a doll."

"The lipstick might be a bit much," Mary agrees, instructing me on how to reapply it.

After an hour of prepping, during most of which I spend doodling on napkins and any scrap of paper Mary lets get within my grasp, Mary and I finally pile into her car and drive into the country. The scenic drive reminds me of Bruce's motorcycle ride, causing me to gaze wistfully out the window and tune out Mary's chatter.

"Polo may not be the most exciting sport in the world, but this is a chance for you to interact with your handsome Mr. Wayne in a non-work environment. And Floyd Lawton will be there. He's gaining some notoriety as a younger version of Bruce Wayne with a reputation as a charming lady's man," Mary informs me.

"Bruce Wayne isn't charming. That portion of his reputation is entirely due to the lure of his money."

"But you've never been lured by money before so there must be some redeeming quality to him."  
"Nope."

"Well, if you decided to waste this opportunity, that's your problem. I, however, am going to introduce myself to Mr. Lawton," She smiles conspiratorially.

At the arena I recognize many of the people wandering around and talking in little groups from the art museum gallery opening. Nancy and Genevieve, apparently inseparable, laugh together in the stands. Off to the right Bruce Wayne and an extraordinarily good looking young man I don't recognize relax near the horses. Bruce glances at me, looks away, then does a double take. He says something to his friend and starts to walk towards me. I uselessly search for a place to hide. My two faced friend Mary has conveniently abandoned me for a chance to flirt with one of the men on the polo team.

"Lyn, what did you do to yourself?" Bruce asks in his haughty 'Prince of Gotham' voice.

"Remind me to ask you that next time you come home with another dislocated arm," I hiss under my breath.

"The dress is nice, but you look like you have a black eye," Bruce says with a lopsided grin.

"It took one too many pokes to put the contacts on," I retort sarcastically, "Any chance we'll be visited by Feely today? Then we'll see who has the black eye."

"No. I caught him, remember?"

"Who is this friend of yours, Bruce?" the man had followed Bruce over.

"Lynnet Pearl," I say, shaking his hand.

"Floyd Lawton. It's a pleasure to meet you." His smile is dashingly handsome, leaving me flustered.

"Mr. Lawton, I was hoping to meet you," Mary gushes, pushing in-between Lawton and I.

"Floyd meet Mary, our receptionist at Wayne Enterprises," Bruce introduces her.

Mary bristles at Bruce's less than reverent introduction, but turns her blinding smile on Floyd who seems to be dazzled despite Mary's unglamorous job.

"Have you ever watched polo before, Mary?" Floyd asks her, offering his arm.

Mary takes it, practically simpering, and the two of them walk off in the direction of the polo ponies.

"I think I should rephrase my previous question," Bruce comments, "What did Mary do to you?"

"Dragged me across half of Gotham this morning. The dress was my idea though. I'm glad you like it."

"I take it this means you received my phone message."

"Message?" I ask, confused.

"The one I left for you, asking you to come to the first fundraiser for the new charity I've created in my grandmother's name. Why else would you be here?"

"Mary," I say.

Bruce nods, glancing knowingly in the direction of Mary and Floyd.

"I still can't believe you decided to take up polo."

"I'm Bruce Wayne. Of course I play polo."

"Isn't it a little easy compared to…you know."

"If I went by that comparison everything would be too easy. I'd be left with nothing but cave diving and BASE jumping."

"Well, we should probably move on," I suggest, "We can't be seen talking too long. People might start getting ideas. Need to keep the relationship purely professional, right?"

"I should make sure Floyd isn't making a complete idiot out of himself, anyway," Bruce agrees.

"Send Mary over to me if you can. I'll be sitting with Nancy and Genevieve."

"You know Floyd's mother?" Bruce asks.

"I do. I've heard a lot about Floyd and his brother."

"Edward is off traveling, or so Floyd tells me."

"I'll be sure to let Genevieve know just how charming and gentlemanly her son is."

"Floyd? Charming? Obviously you haven't truly met him yet."

"Good luck in the tournament, Bruce," I say, teasingly ignoring his comment.

I wave over at Nancy and Genevieve who look delighted to see me despite the fact that I disappeared during the museum opening.

"Good to see you again," Genevieve says, "Nancy was telling me about how well her portrait was going."

"I'm glad to hear it," I say, smiling brightly.

"Genevieve was just agreeing she needed a portrait, weren't you," Nancy prompts.

"Yes, I was wondering if you could start on one for me. You could go back and forth between my house and Nancy's every other day."

"I could, but it would take me longer to finish Nancy's. Is that all right with you?"

"Perfectly fine," Nancy assures me, "With my busy schedule, portrait sessions every day would not have been possible anyway."

"Well then, I'm delighted to have another client Genevieve," I tell her warmly.

Something behind me catches Nancy's eye, distracting her from our conversation.

"Don't look now, but Bruce Wayne has brought his fickle little friend. She's probably trying to garner support for her DA campaign," Nancy reports.

I turn my head slightly and see Rachel Dawes leaning against the arena wall, waving to Bruce on the field.

"Rachel is a pleasant young woman," Genevieve defends her, "I think she would make a great District Attorney. She certainly proved herself as an assistant. She's far better than that Harvey Dent. I don't trust him."

"I haven't met her yet," I say quietly, watching Rachel watch Bruce.

"Then you should meet her," Genevieve says, "Rachel!" she beckons Rachel to sit with us.

"Please don't invite her over here," Nancy protests, "We don't get along…" she trails off into silence when Rachel sees us. Plastering a fake smile on her face, Nancy greets Rachel with just as much enthusiasm as Genevieve.

"Rachel, meet Lynnet Pearl. She's an artist," Genevieve says.

It's the first time I've been introduced as an artist. I enjoy the way the words sound together. And can't help but imagine them scrawled across the wall of a gallery.

"Nice to meet you," Rachel says pleasantly, shaking my hand, "Art is something I've always admired but have never been very talented at myself. Were you at the gallery opening Friday night?"

"Rachel is running for DA and sees every new face as a potential voter," Genevieve jokes.

"Not true, Genevieve," Rachel says, laughing, "Though if you're interested I can give you a button." She hands me a campaign pin.

I laugh, "Of course I'll offer my support. I haven't heard much good about Harvey Dent," I tell her, sticking the pin on my dress.

"I'm surprised he's not here, actually," Rachel says, looking around, "I'll be the first to admit that charity events are one of the best places to raise support."

"He's not as comfortable among Gotham's rich and famous as you are," Nancy says, her voice making it clear she was insinuating something. Nancy's eyes travel in the direction of Bruce Wayne, charging across the field on his pony. Her contrived smile never leaves her face.

Rachel ignores the comment, and instead turns to me for conversation.

"What galleries have you been in?" she asks, looking genuinely interested.

"None, actually," I say, "I'm currently working on portrait commissions and my own private projects. 'Artist' is not my day job, unfortunately."

"Everyone needs some way of paying the bills," Rachel agrees, "I completely understand. If I could, I would be spending all my time working for the charity I started back in college."

Was this woman some kind of saint? 'Artist' suddenly felt like a very selfish profession.

"I'm an archivist for Wayne Enterprises. And just recently, the head of Applied Sciences as well."

"You work for Bruce?" Rachel asks, smiling fondly, "He's an old friend."

"He talked about you," I say, "Back when he worked for Applied Sciences under Mr. Fox. Before, well…" I trail off, unwilling to bring up Earle in front of Nancy.

"Bruce always loved the sciences. He was probably happier working in that department than acting as the company's largest shareholder."

"Young men don't seem to have any interest taking up their fathers' businesses. Floyd certainly has resisted all of George's attempts to give Floyd a start up job at Lawton Corporation. He still carries around his childhood daydreams of archery championships, fame, and glory," Genevieve chuckles.

"Floyd is interested in Archery?" I ask, steering the conversation away from Bruce.

"Obsessed is more like it," Genevieve scoffs.

"You can't deny he is the best," Nancy reminds her.

"But isn't he getting a little old to want to go to the Olympics. He may be skilled, but he's not at that level," Genevieve argues. From the field Floyd salutes his mother, who returns a smile and wave, "For all that he acts like a child, he is in his twenties now."

"Lyn, isn't Floyd wonderful," Mary exclaims, sliding into the seat next to me.

I catch the laughter bubbling out of me, collect myself, and calmly introduce Mary to Genevieve. Mary turns beet red with embarrassment.

Typical of Mary, however, she gets over it within seconds and turns her charm on Floyd's mother. Rachel and I are left in the middle of everything, sitting silently.

"So why do you want to run for District Attorney?" I ask her.

Relived for a subject of conversation she's clearly an expert on, Rachel launches into a description of all the good she could do for Gotham City.

"Have you heard of Teresa William's protest against the new Ron Marshall apartments going up near crime alley?" I ask her.

"I have. Though I think Ms. Williams might be a little misguided there. Certainly, displacing the citizens living in those slums would be unfair. Yet, living in the slums does them no good either."

The more I talk with Rachel, the more I grow to enjoy her company. She seems to be a pleasant enough person. I can see why, of all the people Bruce knew during his childhood, this was the only friendship he held on to. The part inside of me, twisting in jealousy, orders me to hate Rachel, but I repress those feelings long enough to see past them. I'll definitely be voting for Rachel Dawes in the ballot.

"Rachel, can I ask you a personal question?" Mary interrupts our conversation.

"You can, but I reserve the right not to answer it," Rachel says, grinning.

"I'm sorry, usually I'm not one to gossip…"

I snort and receive a glare from Mary.

"…but I've been dying to know. Are you dating Bruce Wayne?" The way Mary asks the question makes it seem like she's fully supporting the idea. I'm a little confused about what Mary is trying to accomplish through her question. Meanwhile my face betrays me by turning a faint shade of red.

Rachel's smile falters.

"I'm sorry, if it's too personal you can ignore it. But all the society tabloids gossip, and it's so romantic," Mary says.

"It's all right," Rachel says, "There is absolutely nothing going on between Bruce and I. We're just good friends."

"Oh. Well, I have to admit that's a little disappointing. I had hoped for something more exciting," Mary says, but exchanges a happy glance with me. I turn away, embarrassed. Rachel raises an eyebrow in my direction.

"Shall we watch the game?" Nancy says a little too loudly, shifting her attention to the field, "Floyd's team appears to be winning.

Floyd's team indeed keeps the lead during the entire first half. At halftime Mary drags me down to where Floyd and Bruce are taking a break. I suppose she wanted to use me as an excuse to get close to Floyd again. While Mary and Floyd are flirting blindly, Bruce and I walk off.

"Another hour or so and they'll be unbearable," I comment.

"Perhaps I should beat him. Take him down a peg or two."

"I certainly hope you are referring to polo and not your nightly exercise. And if you meant polo, I wouldn't count on it. I was watching; I'm afraid I must inform you that Floyd's skills in polo surpass yours."

"What do you know about polo?"

"I've done research."

"And you think my team can't beat Floyd Lawton?"

"Correction: I know your team can't win."

"If I recall correctly, the last time you made an assumption about me, you were proven wrong."

"Then prove me wrong again, brave knight."

"That is jousting."

"Which is also on horses. Honestly, that's about the limit of my knowledge on polo."

"But you said…"

"Bruce!" Floyd calls over, "Why don't you join Mary and I for dinner after the game?" Floyd has his arm around Mary's shoulders, who looks overjoyed.

"Lyn can come too," Mary suggests.

Bruce and Floyd share an uncomfortable glance.

"Uh, actually…I had thought Bruce would bring Rachel," Floyd tells Mary, patting her shoulder patronizingly.

"Rachel and I had planned on having dinner tonight. Sorry Lyn," Bruce agrees.

"Completely fine. I…uh…" I begin, searching for an excuse, "have to wash my hair." I mutter under my breath.

"I didn't catch that, sorry," Floyd says.

"Nonsense, Lyn," Mary says, "I know for a fact you're not doing anything tonight. So, you'll come with us. A nice big group."

I begin contemplating the best way to shut Mary up.

Floyd at least has the manners to appear slightly embarrassed, "Then I'll invite Gary along too." he waves at another member of his polo team. I make my escape back to Charlotte and Nancy while Gary is walking over.

Mary comes up behind me, "You give up too easily, Lyn. You heard Rachel: there is nothing going on between them. Clearly she isn't interested in him. You just have to make him forget about her."

"I don't really care," I protest, pulling away from Mary.

I don't talk to Mary for the rest of the game. I do, however, notice that Bruce single-handedly turns around his team's losing streak and proceeds to painfully trounce Floyd's team.


	17. Week 2:Sunday Part II

A/N: Thank you all for your support! Hopefully I'll have more chapters updated a bit more regularly since I've survived this semester, and am now sitting around all summer without a job and plenty of free time. Which I should probably not be happy about, but I am anyway.

Apologies in advance for this chapter…love it or hate it….just please don't kill me. Haha.

Disclaimer: Still don't own batman unfortunately. I also don't own Jackson Pollock or Andy Warhol, fortunately.

Chapter 17 (aka 16.5)

Afterward the polo game our cheering group decides to congratulate Bruce's team on their victory. Rachel runs over and gives Bruce a friendly hug. I try not to notice.

But out of the corner of my eye I watch the two of them.

"Bruce!" Floyd yells from beside me, "Are you going out to celebrate with us?"

"Celebrate?" Bruce asks, his usual mocking grin seeping back onto his face, "Did you forget that it was you who lost?"

"I was talking about the success of this fine charity event," Floyd bellows, laughing and slapping Bruce's back. Bruce, caught off guard, staggers forward a half step.

"Why don't we go to the Old Factory?" Mary suggests brightly.

"I don't know about tonight…" Bruce starts to say. He glances over at Rachel getting into her car.

"Bruce, how can you rub my defeat in my face if you go home early? Is it past your bed time or something?" Floyd jokes.

I snort, drawing looks from Floyd and Mary.

"… I think it's a great idea," I say somewhat sarcastically.

"Good, we're going then!" Mary exclaims, climbing into Floyd's convertible.

"Wait Mary, what about…" I begin to say.

"I think for once you can drive your own car," Mary says, tossing me her key ring.

I glance over at her old '84 Honda and realize she's probably trying to save face with Floyd.

"Yeah, right," I say, pocketing the keys.

Her house keys are still on the ring, but maybe Mary doesn't intend to go home tonight.

"I'll see you at the restaurant then," I tell her and walk off, completely unexcited about the prospect of sitting through an entire dinner with Floyd and Mary.

Getting into the car I overhear Bruce still trying to come up with an adequate reason to escape from the impromptu dinner party.

"Just because you couldn't convince a certain someone to join us, does not mean you can go home and mope, Bruce!" Floyd argues before I slam my door shut.

In the car I fiddle with Mary's radio for a while, find the alternative rock music channel that she hates, and turn the volume up loud. I lazily roll the windows down as I pass the group of three still gathered around Floyd's convertible.

Childish yes, but very satisfying.

Besides if I get to the restaurant first I may have time to wander along the waterfront.

As soon as I merge onto the freeway my bag starts ringing. One hand on the wheel, I rummage blindly through my junk to pull out the offending phone.

"Hello?" I ask.

"Lyn…"

"Bruce…you are aware I'm driving."

"I assume so."

"And I assume you're driving."

"And?"

"And it's illegal in most states, including the city of Gotham, to talk on a cell phone while driving."

"Which is precisely why I called you on my car's phone."

There's amusement in his voice.

"Well, some of us don't have high tech gadgets wired into their cars," I protest.

"Really? I thought the peeling paint and outdated model was just a disguise."

"Nope, the car is old and falling apart on the inside too," I say, laughing, "Not that I'm in any place to judge. I don't even have a car."

"You could have one of my old ones. I assure you they're in much better condition than Mary's."

"Well when you're idea of 'old car' is last year's brand new Ferrari…"

"Lamborghini, actually."

"Lamborghini, whatever. That sounds like a pasta. Either way, no thanks. I'd be carjacked in two seconds."

Bruce laughs.

"What was the purpose for this call again?" I ask him, "Other than to grill me about the state of a car that's not even really mine."

"I wanted to apologize about this whole situation," Bruce says, sounding hesitant.

"Oh?"

"Your friend Mary seems to have got it into her head that…" he pauses awkwardly.

"Yeah?" I feign stupidity, wanting to hear him say it.

"I think she was trying to set us up."

"No!" my exclamation of surprise might have been a little over-acted.

I can practically hear Bruce's eye roll.

"Maybe we should just play along…" I start to say.

Dead silence on the other end.

"…no. No, definitely need to straighten Mary out about these things." I add hastily.

"It's just dinner," Bruce says.

"Yeah," I agree, "Dinner with friends. Platonic friends. The two of us, and one male friend, and one female friend, who seem to enjoy batting eyelashes at each other and cooing."

"Maybe I should just go straight to the bat-bunker."

"Don't you dare leave me alone with these two! A dinner with friends-who-might-be-more-than-friends is bad enough, but can you imagine being the third wheel with them?" I protest loudly.

"You expect me to sacrifice my…or your…reputation just so you can avoid one hour of conversation?"

"First of all, your reputation can't get much worse and dating secretaries fits in pretty well…"

"Dating secretaries? What happened to the super models? I guess if the secretaries were especially glamorous or…"

"Second of all, one can't hurt a nonexistent reputation, so I'll be okay. And…wait. Are you saying I'm unglamorous?"

Before Bruce answers me, two loud blasts come from behind my car. I jump, nearly loosing grip on my cell phone and stare into the rearview mirror.

Flashing red and blue lights are tailgating me.

"Bruce, I've got to go," I say brusquely, turning the phone off.

I hate cell phones.

I grudgingly pull over to the side of the road. I hunt through my purse for my wallet and then tear Mary's car apart searching for the insurance information. I find five lipstick containers, two compact mirrors, a ball of yarn (one I'm supposing Eleanor has been missing for a very long time), three hair brushes, a bag of change, and plenty more interesting garbage, but not a single piece of paper. By the time the officer walks up to my door I'm digging around underneath the seats desperately.

Maybe he just won't ask.

"Can I see your license and information miss?"

"Yeah," I mumble, straightening up and smacking my head against the wheel.

"Here," I hold out my license, rubbing my stinging head.

He takes the card, "Do you know why I pulled you over."

I can feel tears beginning to well up.

Tears.

Seriously?

"Yeah…I…" I stammer clumsily, "Cell phone." I gesture towards the phone discarded on the seat next to me.

"Yup," the officer says, "Cell phones and other distractions cause 60 percent of accidents these days, you know." He looks down on me sternly.

"I…I know." the tears are definitely starting to come now. Since when did I regress to being twelve years old?

He seems surprised to see the water spilling down my cheeks.

"Are you okay?" He asks with genuine concern.

All I can do is shake my head in frustration, brushing tears away, face red with embarrassment.

"I usually never…" I start to say.

I never cry. Least of all in front of complete strangers.

"I'm sure you don't, but the GPD needs to start cracking down on these cell phone cases."

I sniffle a little, feeling pathetic.

I need a tissue.

I pull out one of Mary's old T-shirts from the back seat, recognize it as one of my old exercise shirts, and blow my nose, resulting in a noise that could drown out Friday evening's rush-hour honking.

"But for you I'll make an exception," he continues, looking really uncomfortable.

I stare up at him in shock. Is he…patronizing me?

He tears off a slip of paper and hands it to me, "Here's a warning. Just be sure this doesn't happen again, okay?"

I nod mutely, taking the paper. For the sake of saving my pay-check I must decide to put up with the patronization.

"Thanks, uh…" I say.

"Berg Erickson," he says, smiling, "Have a good evening, mam."

Mam? Who is he calling mam?

I sit in the car for a little while longer while he drives off. Flicking open one of Mary's compact mirrors I'm utterly horrified. No wonder officer Berg Erickson took pity on me. Long lines of eyeliner trace what few wrinkles I have on my face, looking like misplaced eyelashes.

"Real lovely," I pull out the wet wipes I found during my frantic hunt for Mary's car information and remove every trace of goopy substance from my face. Feeling much more refreshed and much, much more like myself, I restart the engine and merge back onto the freeway.

A half hour later I pull into the Old Factory parking lot, terribly late, and in an even worse mood than earlier. I deliberately request for valet parking, partially for the look of fear and trepidation on the young man's face as he imagines parking my horrendous junk heap next to the nice new Lexus that just pulled away, and partially to get revenge on Mary for making me drive the stupid thing in the first place. Someone pulls open my door and I gracefully slide out. Confidently I stride through the crowd of onlookers and reporters to get to the door. It's well known that reporters often stalk the entryway to the Old Factory, hoping to capture a candid photo of the restaurant's famous patrons.

They're undoubtedly all staring at the stunning, enigmatic woman who has just stepped out of her car. They're wondering who this mysterious beauty could be. And what new, hip type of car could she possibly be driving? It is it an unforeseen trend? Is there more to this woman than meets the eye? They take one look into her startling blue eyes and know there's something different about her. Something more.

Because my eyes always used to turn an extreme shade of blue after crying.

Of course, in reality the reporters completely ignored me as I walked by; another anonymous face in the crowd. Oh sure, I got a few weird looks due to the state of my vehicle. But no bright flashbulbs went off, no one crowded around hoping to get a comment. They did, however, converge on Harvey Dent who arrived right after me.

I glance back briefly, watching him smoothly divert the millions of questions and aggressive photographers. Smiling to myself, I pat the "Vote for Rachel Dawes" badge now securely fixed to my messenger bag and continue on into the restaurant.

Naturally the entire place is crowded. My hope of anonymously spotting Bruce, Mary, and Floyd fades quickly. Nervously straightening the hem of my dress I toss my hair back - as if I was one of those dazzling movie stars with perfectly curled hair - and confront one of the hostesses.

"I'm sorry can I help you?" she asks, in a borderline rude tone.

"Yeah, I need to find a table…" I begin to explain.

"I'm afraid all our tables are booked for the evening."

"I know. I don't need to request a table because…"

"I'm sorry, we have a dress code here at The Factory, are you sure you aren't looking for the grill around the corner?"

So much for appearing glamorous.

"No! You're not listening…"

"Please step outside to make room for our incoming guests."

"No, I won't step outside!" I exclaim.

I can feel the uppity, aggressive side of me starting to rear it's ugly head. Must have been the bizarre crying that brought on this over emotional state. That and the fact that this just hasn't been a very good day. At all.

"If you could just talk to the valet outside he can help you with directions to…"

"I don't need directions, and I don't need to step outside. I need you to listen to me and help me find my friend's table."

"I'm afraid all our tables are booked this evening…"

"Just…never mind I'll find them myself."

I start to walk into the main room of the restaurant but am quickly blocked by the hostess.

"I can't let you go in there unless you have a reservation."

"I do!"

The lady stops mid-sentence with her mouth hanging open.

"Name?" Her programmed brain recovers pretty quickly.

"Lawton."

She types the name into her computer.

"I'm sorry, that party has already arrived. I'm going to have to ask you to leave now."

"What?"

I'm almost at breaking point. Any moment I'm going to be demanding to see a manager. And inquire as to why paying customers are being interrogated by the staff.

"Is there a problem here?" Harvey Dent's voice cuts into our conversation.

"Yes, she won't take me to my group's table," I explain as the hostess says simultaneously, "No sir, this will be cleaned up in a minute and then we'll seat you."

"Seems to me you need to find out where this lady's table is," Dent says, smiling his prince charming smile.

How lucky of me to be heroically saved by a pretentious, aggrandizing, overly-beautiful…

"You said Lawton?" the woman asks, "I'll go ask."

And she scurries away without another word.

"Problem solved," Dent says cheerily.

"Thanks, but no thanks. I had the situation perfectly under control on my own. She would have listened to me." …eventually.

Dent just laughs.

The hostess returns with a very red face and demurely asks me to "Come right this way, please".

"Thank you," I say, and grandly follow after her.

She leads me to the back of the restaurant and out onto the patio where a select scattering of diners sit at private tables.

Bruce takes one look at my face and has a momentary spasm in his upper lip.

I give him my haughtiest glare back.

"Lyn, you made it!" Mary cries excitedly, jumping up to air-hug me. The kind of hug all rich, society folk use when they don't want to muss up each others dresses.

"I had some trouble getting here," I say. In the middle of her hug I quickly whisper in her ear, "What is wrong with these contacts? I practically burst out crying over a traffic violation on the way over!"

"Oh sorry," she says, giggling quietly, "I forgot to warn you how dry contacts can get sometimes."

"Great. Thanks." I say, sliding into my seat in between Bruce and Mary.

I lean in closer to Bruce, "You're phone call nearly cost me a ticket."

"Sorry," he says nonchalantly.

"Sorry?" I raise an eyebrow, "You should give me some kind of bonus for emotional trauma."

Bruce laughs, "How about I'll pay for dinner and we'll call it even."

I crack open a menu and see no signs of prices anywhere. Must be a 'if you need to ask, you can't afford it' kind of place. "Sounds good," I agree, "But next time I'm voting we go to Sam's place"

"Ah yes, the romantic candlelight dinner in a back alley."

"Much cozier than this spacious, grandiose balcony."

His arrogant smile flicks across his face, "I promise…if we survive this dinner, I'll take you to Sam's restaurant any night of the week." He shoots a significant glance across the table at Floyd and Mary.

The two are acting very friendly, giggling quietly together and completely ignoring our half of the table.

"Do you want to shake things up a bit?" I ask, conspiratorially.

Bruce arches an eyebrow.

"Play along," I tell him. Leaning back in my chair I pick up my wine glass and lazily take a sip. Then in a loud, very obvious voice I announce, "So, Bruce, did you read the article on the new Jackson Pollock that was discovered recently?"

"Ah…" Bruce looks momentarily confused, "Yes, I did. But I'm afraid you're mistaken. The provenance wasn't secure enough to officially claim the painting as a Pollock."

"Not so. Apparently the painting was given to it's current owner by a man who ran one of the local bars Pollock frequented."

"Really?"

"Indeed. They say there's quite a story behind the creation of the painting. One that involves movie stars, broken mirrors, and plenty of alcohol."

"Who is Jackson Pollock?" Mary asks, briefly distracted from her conversation with Floyd.

"A Pop artist," Floyd says dismissively.

Bruce, in the midst of taking a deep sip from a wine glass probably containing water, nearly spits out his drink.

"Pop? As in soda?" Mary asks, laughing.

Floyd shrugs.

"That's exactly it," I chime in, "Pollock focused mainly on Coca-Cola. In fact, I believe he was known to be very discriminatory in his Pop choices."

"Not as much as he was discriminatory in his soup choices," Bruce comments, grinning.

"Quite right," I agree, "It's only Campbell's' soup for Pollock."

"Of course, his work was all about repetition," Bruce says.

"Yes, I especially enjoyed his 1966 _Cow_," I add.

"Pop art has been tragically underappreciated, " Bruce informs Mary, who is listening avidly

"Indeed, especially by those Abstract Expressionists led by Andy Warhol. A fine group of very macho men."

"Have you been to the Factory to see Pollock's work in person?" Bruce asks.

"Definitely! One can't be a Jackson Pollock enthusiast without visiting the Mattress Factory. History was made in that place."

"They are unveiling a new box soon, I hear."

"Let's hope it's not rotten pizza again. That was a bit of a disappointment."

"I believe the museum curators are expecting more audio tapes."

"Wonderful! Pollock's true genius was in music."

"I confess, I have never heard one of his compositions."

"Well, I have to say he's not as good as John Cage. Cage's 4'33" piece was simply astounding," I glance around the room, "In fact, I believe if we were to reenact the composition here, it would produce some alarming results."

Mary and Floyd look confused.

"What are…" Mary begins.

"Shh!" I whisper, holding up my arm for a better view of the second hand on my watch.

After four minutes and thirty three seconds I stop timing and begin clapping.

"That was wonderful, wasn't it?" I exclaim.

Bruce, struggling to keep a straight face, joins in the clapping. "Cage's compositions are genius," he says.

Our table is starting to attract strange looks.

Feeling encouraged, I continue filling Mary's head with a blatantly false, yet thorough history of Modernist Art.

"You mean the Mona Lisa was not actually painted by Da-Vinci?" Mary asks, an hour into my lecture.

"Of course not," I scoff, "Duchamp painted the Mona Lisa. In 1919."

"Fascinating," Floyd drawls. He idly spins an empty wineglass, drilling a circular dent deeper and deeper into the tablecloth.

"Oh, but this is just Modernist Art," I tell him, "Wait until you hear what the Post-Modernists did! And the Post-Post-Modernists? Oh, they were a riot!" I laugh and drain my own wineglass.

I've had three glasses of wine and felt no effects, when usually I'm knocking over tables by the second sip. I'm guessing Bruce was behind my mysterious lack of intoxication. So, everyone probably blames my outlandish behavior on the effects of alcohol when in reality, it's all me. Except Bruce, who of course knows that I'm perfectly sober.

Which could explain the entertained smirk he's been wearing on his face since the moment I started demonstrating how to do gesture paintings.

"I think we've had enough of…Modernism…for now," Bruce says, flagging down a waiter, "The extra 'posts' will have to wait for another time."

Bruce casually takes care of the check as Floyd and Mary begin discussing moonlit strolls along the beach.

"A boardwalk nearby runs right along the water. The waves are simply gorgeous this time of the night," Mary insists, "We should go for a walk."

"Swell idea," Floyd says, taking Mary's hand. The two smile adoringly into one another's eyes, looking just about as cliché as a couple can get.

Makes me want to dive under the nearest tablecloth and hide in shame.

Floyd begins to lead Mary out of the restaurant. She stops, throws a look back at me and says, "You're coming, right?"

There's something more in that look, but I'm not quite sure what. Does she expect me to come? Would Bruce and I be intruding?

Does she expect Bruce and I to, heaven forbid, act as nauseating as them?

Okay, maybe I wouldn't mind it if Bruce went all lovey-dovey on me. But anything he did would just be an act. As superficial as the billionaire playboy. The real Bruce Wayne has a hard enough time showing affection at all, let alone displaying it in public.

I'm standing there, trying to make up my mind and probably looking a bit idiotic, when I notice Bruce already leaving.

"So we're walking with them then?" I ask, following him out.

"I don't see why not," Bruce says, smiling. A real, honest, amazingly beautiful smile.

"Okay," I say, grinning back.

On the boardwalk, Bruce and I trail after Mary and Floyd. We don't flirt, we don't hold hands, we don't even walk particularly close to each other. Instead we talk, completely comfortably, about anything.

Well, with obvious exceptions.

And yet, somehow, the mood remains very romantic.

I blame the couple in front of us.

"What do you suppose they're saying?" I finally ask Bruce.

"I'd rather not know."

"Good point. I'm getting a little sick of the pair of them." I stop to lean over the railing, gazing down into the dark water below. Bruce's reflection towers over mine as he comes up to join me.

"I hadn't realized how much taller you were than me," I comment, using the reflection of my hand to compare our heights.

"Only because you're not standing up straight," Bruce says, placing his hands on my shoulders and correcting my posture. The two of us stand very stiffly, staring at the water.

Bruce remains a head taller.

"Or perhaps I never realized it either," Bruce concedes, chuckling, "You have a tall presence."

"Thanks," I say, slumping back against the railing, "I think."

"You're welcome."

A moment of silence descends, which leaves me pondering the absurd notion of how to suppress sudden, unnecessary urges to kiss someone who is nothing but a close friend to me.

And the brilliant solution I come up with: visual distractions.

"Look, ducks!" I cry, giving in to a momentary bout of aw-that's-so-cute syndrome.

Bruce raises an eyebrow but leans further over the rail to see the ducks I'm excitedly pointing at.

"How cute," he says unconvincingly, "Too bad we don't have any bread."

"Luckily, I always come prepared," I say, pulling a warm roll out of my bag.

"Isn't that the…"

"Leftover bread from the dinner table?" I ask, innocently.

"How…?"

"I have my ways. And anyway, they would have just thrown all that perfectly good bread out. Such a waste," I pull out a second roll and hand it to him, "You can feed the ducks too."

"Thanks," Bruce says, sounding rather under-whelmed at the idea.

We tear off a couple chunks of bread and toss it into the water. The number of ducks floating below us grows exponentially.

"There is a trick to dinner roll pilfering," I admit.

"Oh really?" Bruce asks.

"Yes. You see, it's quite an art, being able to steal the bread without anyone seeing. All the while keeping the bread fairly intact. There is not even a dent on this roll," I say, displaying the perfectly smooth crust proudly.

"I'm impressed," Bruce says, grinning, "How do you do it?"

"Well," I say, "I'll show you." I whip out a napkin from my purse and lay it over the railing.

"Isn't that…"

"Yes it is," I say defensively, "Do you want to see my demonstration or not?"

"I do," Bruce says, his smile widening.

"Anyway…the first step is to note that the bread basket cloth and the napkins are almost always the exact same shape and color."

Bruce nods.

"Second, make sure to position the bread basket next to you at the end of dinner. Place your napkin on the plate next to the bread basket. Also make sure your bag is open for a quick transfer. Third, while everyone is paying attention to the check, take the entire bread cloth out of the basket with your left hand, while tossing the napkin in with your right. Then dump the bread and cloth into your bag," I pantomime dumping the napkin into my bag.

"Very sneaky," Bruce says approvingly.

"One more thing," I say, pulling the napkin out again, "If there is only one piece of bread in the basket, the entire set up is much simpler." I pick up the remains of the roll I used to feed the ducks, "All you have to do is…"

Despite his intent interest, Bruce becomes distracted by something over my head. I glance behind me and see Floyd and Mary, arm in arm, coming towards us. Floyd smiles briefly up at us before catching Mary in a quick kiss. The two giggle disgustingly.

"Great. They're back," I say dryly.

"I think they're finished with their walk," Bruce observes.

"Or whatever else they were doing. Which, knowing Mary, probably consisted of making out like high school students at prom."

"They're definitely coming towards us."

"Finally, maybe we can leave now," I say, smiling up at Bruce briefly before turning back to my amazing bread-into-napkin-into-bag trick, "So as I was saying, you take the napkin and…"

My words are cut off rather abruptly as Bruce's hand slides around my neck and smoothly pulls me into a kiss. My initial reaction consists of eyes-wide-open, brain-racing shock, and maybe a little of 'what does this man think he's doing?'. Then I slowly start to register how pleasant the night has suddenly become.

The handkerchief and bread fall from my hands. I hear a small splash from somewhere below my feet.

Mary and Floyd can most definitely see what's going on. Although it's only been half a second, it feels like an hour in my head. I don't know what's happening. I know I'm thinking too much. Should I push him away? Is this real? Am I having another one of _those _ dreams? Conflicting thoughts cloud my mind and I can't seem to escape.

Then Bruce wraps his other arm around my waist, pulls me closer, and…

My brain just sort of stops….


	18. Week 3:Monday

Chapter 18: Monday

Disclaimer: Don't own batman

If I ever had an inclination to get my face plastered across the front page of every daily newspaper in town, I now know the best way of going about it. Just share one brief, insignificant kiss with a billionaire and magically you becomes the hottest topic of gossip. According to the tabloid, Bruce and I have been secretly dating for months - a concrete fact the author of the article purloined from a very reliable source. If the source is named Mary, clearly there was no fact checking involved. Apparently, everyone has conveniently forgotten Bruce's womanizing ways which, if the article is correct, were still going on even as Bruce and I were supposedly dating. Now everyone believes he's 'changed'.

Whatever that means.

I crumple the blurry front page spread of Bruce and I on the boardwalk into a ball and toss it into the trash can. I may not have had a reputation to start with, but I sure do have one now. 'Gold-digger' is one of the more frequent terms cropping up in the newspapers. Which, again, shows just how little the news writers know. Even if they were correct about Bruce and I dating. Which they aren't. Yet, now because of them, they are.

I sigh.

Getting up from my desk, I dig the offending page out again, unwrap it, and pin it to the cabinet behind me with a magnet. If I have to suffer this indignity, at least I can be obnoxiously obvious about it.

"Nice photo, Miss Pearl," Mr. Fox says with a humorous glint in his eye as he walks by on his way downstairs.

"The whole evening was entirely _his_ fault," I call after him.

I definitely never intended anything like this to happen. And I definitely didn't see the photographer hiding in the bushes until I heard the distinct sound of a camera click and started seeing bright lights. The photographer was lucky her flash bulb stunned Bruce and I a little bit. Otherwise, Bruce definitely would have caught up with the woman and the photo now circulating throughout Gotham definitely would never have seen the light of day.

I would never have had to endure Mary's triumphant looks. I would never have had to explain to Chad why I kept my budding romance a secret from him. And, most importantly, I would never have had the first genuinely awkward conversation with Bruce. Afterward we decided the best way to deal with the situation was to just go along with everything. Bruce had the gall to suggest that my role in aiding his vigilante activities would be go smoother now that we don't have to pretend to not know each other beyond the occasional hello. He seems to forget that he was the one who caused this problem in the first place.

And he has yet to explain the cause of the cause.

"Another note for you," Mary interrupts my thoughts, "If I didn't know better, I'd say you had a secret admirer." She winks at me and sashays back to the elevator.

Quietly seething, I unfold the note and recognize Orange Hoodie Guy's now familiar handwriting. The almost indiscernible messy scrawl reads:

'Lyn - Meet Teresa and I for lunch 1:00 at the café - OHG'

I escape the archives through the back door. To my surprise, Bruce greets me in the alley. Bob stands next to him, scratching his head.

"I don't remember when the next meeting was scheduled for. Sometime next week. On a special day," Bob says.

"If you remember, you know where to find me," Bruce says, smiling over at me.

"Hello," Bob says, "Are you here with Larry?"

"Yes, and Larry and I need to discuss some things. So we should be going," I reply, a little more coldly than usual.

"Okay," Bob says, "Okay. Okay. I'm leaving. I'll go find out meeting time."

"Good for you, Bob," I say.

"He's a dedicated worker," Bruce observes.

"Indeed. I see you've recruited Bob to your cause," I comment when Bob is out of hearing range.

"I did. It serves to have someone inside Jonathan Crane's conspiracy. Bob understands that what Crane is doing is wrong."

"Bob understands a lot more than just that, I'm sure. He reads more books than anyone. Sure, he's borderline insane, but he's also the most educated person I know."

"A valuable resource."

"You wanted to talk to Teresa?" I ask, changing subjects.

"Yes, I arranged a meeting with her at the café," Bruce says, leading me down the alley, "We need to know what evidence she has against Marshall, if any at all."

"She must not have much, or she would have used it by now," I argue.

"Either way, we need to know," he stops in his tracks and turns to me, "And for the time being my name is Larry. Thankfully the café has outdoor seating so I'll be able to keep up a pretence for needing sunglasses and a hat."

When we get to the café, I spot Teresa already sitting at a table. Bruce immediately walks up to shake her hand.

"Teresa, it's nice to meet you. I'm Larry. I've heard all about your work on behalf of the people in the slums near Crime Alley. With you on the case, I think it will be impossible for the city to deny the proposal for mixed income homes rather than only building wealthy apartments or public housing."

"And you've already met me," I say, "I'm Lyn, an archivist for Wayne Enterprises, and I'm interested to know what dirt we can unearth on Marshall."

"Not much, unfortunately," Teresa admits, "But it's nice to meet you both. We're always happy to have new recruits for our cause."

We all sit down and order lunch. I pull out my sketchbook and draw while taking notes.

"Marshall thinks he can get away with anything," Teresa complains, "And with his mob connections and extra cash to throw away, he almost can. There have been some very questionable occurrences associated with his construction firm through the years, but nothing has ever been proven."

"We intend to change that," Bruce assures her.

"Marshall needs to be under constant surveillance in order to catch him in something," Teresa proposes, "A couple of our volunteers take time out of their days to occasionally watch his building. But the reality is that we're a grassroots organization. Despite the influence we've managed to gain so far, the protest is still largely unheard of."

"I can look into Marshall," I say, and Bruce confirms it with a nod.

"And I'll see what I can do about publicity," Bruce adds with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Great," Teresa says, "I'm glad I was able to meet with you two."

We say our goodbyes and walk casually towards Wayne Tower. Once out of eyesight I duck into the back alley and unlock the side door for Bruce.

"I find it hard to believe a top executive at Wayne Enterprises doesn't carry the keys to the back door twenty-four seven," I jingle my ring of at least 20 keys in front of Bruce, "It often comes in handy. This one.." I pick out the smallest key, "can get me into nearly anyone's office."

Bruce just ignores me and strides into the Archives. I suppose top executives don't have to worry about getting into their own company buildings. Shrugging, I lead the way to the secret room in Archives.

"Be careful shadowing Marshall," Bruce warns.

"I know. I read all the reports of the two 'accidental' deaths on one of his construction sites." I reply, pushing the spot on the wall that slides the panel open. Bruce nods and steps in, closing the door behind him. I hover at the door for a few minutes before Bruce emerges in a crisp blue suit. We walk together to the front of the room.

"In addition, Gordon plans to move Feely from the holding cells back to Arkham Asylum tonight," he tells me, "Hopefully the transfer will be routine. I need you to stay out of this one."

"You're moving Feely back to Arkham? But if he escaped once, can't he escape again?"

"Gordon and I have decided to take that chance. The man is insane, and deserves to be treated as such."

"He's a lot less insane than, say, Bob. And Bob would never hurt a fly," I protest, "Feely consciously knows the damage he's causing. Feely deserves prison."

"Gordon is transferring Feely to Arkham."

"All right," I throw up my hands, "You're the one who has to clean up the mess every time Feely escapes, so it's only fair that you decide what happens to him. But personally I'd rather see the lunatic behind bars than in a padded cell."

Bruce nods as he steps up to the elevator.

"And remember, Alfred will drive us home today. And I'm giving you a day off tomorrow. I need you to thank Marshall for making a very large donation to the new charity that you are running."

"New charity?"

"Yes, the Martha Wayne Foundation."

"How generous of Marshall," I say suspiciously, "You believe there was an ulterior motive?"

"Of course," Bruce says, "He's covering up for something."

Bruce stops and looks at me, considering.

"Also, don't forgot our date tomorrow night," He says abruptly.

"Oh right, dinner and theater. How very original," I roll my eyes and turn back to my work.

"What else do you expect?" Bruce asks.

"A couple drug busts, some gang fights, and a little breaking and entering on the side. It would be kind of like being in our very own movie. Much more exciting, overall."

Bruce sighs, "You're dating billionaire Bruce Wayne now. You have to either play the part, or come up with a way for us to have a newsworthy breakup."

"Why don't you start dating a new model every day," I suggest sarcastically, "Wait, I forgot. You already do that."

"Lyn, you, of all people, know that life is a farce," Bruce argues.

"Exactly. When did I agree to become a part of it?" I ask, getting up from my chair and staring him directly in the eye. Grabbing the nearest stack of papers, I turn on my heel and silently disappear into the filing maze. Bruce doesn't follow me. I try to focus on my filing, but I find myself re-reading the same headline over and over again.

Because Bruce's comment hit on my biggest problem with the entire situation: that kiss did not feel like a farce. Whatever his original intentions, Bruce ended up putting just as much emotion into the kiss as I did. So why do we have to keep pretending?

At the end of the day Bruce and I push our way through a crowd of gossip column reporters and slide into the waiting car. Alfred drops me off at Genevieve's mansion for my first portrait session with her. Genevieve greets me with a surprise: she doesn't just want a portrait of herself, but instead of her entire family. George, and Floyd Lawton are waiting in the next room where an easel and paints are already set up.

Taking a deep breath for confidence, I start to arrange the four members of the Lawton family into a balanced composition. The eldest brother is regrettably absent, but by using a maid as a temporary stand-in I'm able guess where he will fit into the painting.

Unfortunately, I'm unable to calm the tension in the family dynamic. In stark contrast to Nancy's ease at being under scrutiny, the Lawton family poses stiffly. Floyd's characteristic smug grin, so natural and comfortable with Mary, turns into a mild smirk. The father doesn't bother to show any expression at all. Only Genevieve seems remotely happy. All eyes are on me. Each one assessing me with excitement, blame, or cold indifference.

Finally, when I'm packing to leave, George Lawton remarks to the maid, "This portrait is nothing but another one of my wife's flights of fancy, a waste of money. I don't know why she insists on such a monstrosity," he growls, well within my hearing.

I swallow any defensive words I might have said, knowing it would be better to let Genevieve do the talking for me. Floyd silently disappears into the depths of the house.

"You may tell Mr. Lawton that I do insist. Soon the boys will have their own lives, and will leave this home forever. I want to capture our image as a family one last time," Genevieve explains calmly to the maid.

"I don't know why I grant her silly whims," George Lawton says to the maid, "And one 'boy' already left, as I'm sure Mrs. Lawton well knows." Mr. Lawton storms into his office and slams the door.

Throughout the entire conversation, Mr. and Mrs. Lawton did not look at each other once.

"I apologize for my husband. His social graces are rather lacking," Genevieve tells me. She stands alongside me as I clean my brushes. "I have faith the painting will turn out wonderfully. And you can paint from a photo if you must, correct?"

"I can," I say, "But I prefer painting from life. Will your son be visiting home soon?"

"No one knows with Edward," Genevieve says, a motherly smile on her face, "One day he's here, the next he's gone."

"Well when he does return, tie him down, call me over, and I'll add him in as quickly as possible," I joke.

Genevieve laughs, "I promise, I shall try," She turns to leave, "I'm sure you are able to find your own way out. Our driver will take you home. Thank you, Lyn."

I nod and watch her go upstairs. I'm about to leave, but Mr. Lawton's angry voice coming from behind the closed office door intrigues me. Deciding it was my turn to play the spy, I stand right behind the door and listen. How many problems can one family have?

"I don't care how uncooperative you believe Dimitrov is. If you expect me to do business with either of you, I need assurances we'll be working together."

The one-sided conversation appears to be a business problem. Clearly the client has infuriated Mr. Lawton in some way.

"You will meet me, tonight, in the narrows, at Sam's. I will see you there. Or there will be consequences." The phone slams down and heavy footsteps pound to the door. I barely have time to scramble back to my painting supplies before Mr. Lawton throws the door open.

"What are you still doing here?" he barks, "Take your pots of paint and leave."

He storms past me to the stairs, bellowing, "Ann, inform my wife I need to go out tonight!"

I leave hastily and order Genevieve's driver to drop me off near the train station, which I then take directly to the bat-bunker. Unlocking the container and patiently waiting for the elevator to descend, the first thing I notice is that the Tumbler is gone. Bruce has already left to invisibly escort Feely to Arkham.

But Alfred remains.

"Do you think Arkham will be able to hold Feely?" I ask Alfred, sighing.

"I don't presume to question Master Wayne's decision," Alfred says.

"Yet you often do," I point out.

Alfred shows no sign of hearing my comment. He opens up the Batsuit holder and releases an extra latch on the floor. I watch with amusement as he pulls out a secret golf set and begins setting up a miniature putting green.

With Bruce gone, I'm the only person left to investigate Lawton's suspicious business call. No legitimate business uses Sam's for a fancy dinner setting. And if I'm to go to Sam's restaurant, I'm going to need a disguise. I pull out the bin full of various items of clothing ranging from orange hooded sweatshirts to wigs. Feeling very rebellious I slip on a pair of slightly baggy jeans, the orange hood, and the jeans jacket. I tuck my hair up into the baseball cap and add the sunglasses for a final touch. For the first time, I'm very grateful for the contacts Mary insisted I buy. When I return to the main room Alfred glances up, looks startled, then grins slightly.

"May I ask where you are going, Miss Lyn?" he asks, a subtly sarcastic tone to his voice.

"I have a lead and I need to go to the narrows. But Maroni seems opposed to having me around, so I'll go in disguise," I confess, "Do I look like Bruce?" I strike a manly pose.

"Oh, you can pull off the orange hood infinitely better."

I laugh, "Can I take that to mean you approve of my detective work?"

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say," Alfred skirts the question.

I roll my eyes, "I'll try to be back before Bruce so he doesn't gallantly come rescue me from the evils of the narrows, and destroy any opportunity I might have had to get information."

"If Master Wayne specifically asks, I will be obligated to tell him the truth of your whereabouts. If, however, he does not, I may be able to put off telling him until your return."

I turn to go, but pause in my step.

"Alfred, have you read the news lately?" I ask hesitantly.

"If you are referring to the front page of Gotham Daily, then no, I'm afraid I make a point of ignoring rumors."

"Then what is your opinion on Bruce's response to the rumors?"

"Frankly, Master Bruce seems to be wearing a blindfold lately," Alfred says, completely deadpan.

I laugh, slightly shocked at Alfred's straightforward answer, "I think I'm rather inclined to agree with that statement."

"Just so you know, Miss Pearl, you have my full support," Alfred assures me. He takes a swing at the golf ball and gets a perfect hole-in-one.

"Thanks, Alfred," I say, grinning.

I take the train back to the narrows and enter Sam's restaurant through the front door, feeling incredibly conspicuous. I try to act as natural as possible, choosing a post at the bar where I can see the entire room without appearing to be studying the crowd.

Maroni enters the room and my heart stands still for a second. The mob boss strides purposefully towards Falcone's old table. Thankfully, no one pays attention to the anonymous stranger hunched over his beer at the bar. Undoubtedly, sketchy looking guys are so common in Sam's restaurant that no one notices anymore. I wait patiently while Maroni holds meetings with a few of his capos and henchmen. The bartender assumes I'm in a stupor, and after a half hour, stops bothering to check if I need a refill. I pretend to take small sips, but the cup remains obviously full.

Finally, George Lawton comes into the restaurant. Sweat runs down his face despite the cool evening, and his eyes dart around the room. Deals with the mob are probably a new thing for Lawton. He saunters over and sits down right in front of Maroni.

Bingo. I pull out my cell phone and pretend to make a call while surreptitiously snapping a photo of the two. Just in case.

Maroni's guards make a move to pat Lawton done, but stop at a gesture from Maroni.

"I told you I can't guarantee cooperation with the Russian," Maroni says.

"And I told you the vigilante has become a thorn in my side. I refuse to do business until I have assurances," Lawton says, adjusting his collar nervously.

"My preference would also be to work with Dimitrov instead of against him, but he seems set in the idea that we must be rivals. I believe the resistance stems from his hatred of Falcone. Falcone was a capable boss, but he tried to force all other crime families to be subordinate to him. I think I can change that. This is, after all, organized crime and should function as such." Salvatore Maroni smiles humorlessly.

"You intend to end the gang war going on in Gotham?"

"If it is possible to do so without compromising anything, yes."

"Your…legitimate business partners…will be relieved to hear that."

Maroni nods graciously.

"When are you and the Russian meeting?"

"Tomorrow night. On the Arkham Asylum island."

"Good," George Lawton stands up abruptly, "I hope to talk to you again soon," and leaves as fast as he can.

Maroni chuckles and remarks to his friends, "Even if we can't convince the Russian to work with us, Lawton won't be causing any trouble." They all laugh appreciatively.

"Sam!" Maroni calls back towards the kitchen door. Sam comes out, smiling and jovial.

"What'll it be tonight?" he asks.

"Bucatini alla matriciana all around," Maroni says.

"Coming up," Sam says, and returns to his post. Involuntarily, I withdraw into myself as he passes by. My nervousness is unwarranted, however. Sam glances at me without truly seeing me, and with my disguise, would certainly never recognize me. I sit at the bar until closing time, still nursing the same glass of beer. By the time I'm the second to last customer remaining, the bartender begins to sneak suspicious glances at me. I leave him a rather large tip.

"Thanks," I mumble in a gruff voice, "I needed a place to just sit."

If the bartender thought my explanation odd, he gave no sign. Instead he nodded mutely and bid me goodnight. I head out into the night, feeling oddly empowered in the disguise of a burly young man. As a woman alone, I'm obvious prey. But as a man, with my hood pulled up, and my hands casually shoved in my pockets, I give off the feeling of being the predator. A woman and man actually cross the street to avoid passing by me. I take the train after dark, something I've never done before, and survive to get off at the stop in front of Wayne Enterprises' shipyard. I get back to the bat-bunker without incident.

I'm rewarded with a confused stare from Bruce when he sees my disguise.

"Lyn?" he asks.

I laugh and pull off the glasses, "So Alfred didn't say anything."

"Alfred?" Bruce turns to his butler.

Alfred contrives to look completely innocent, "Yes, Master Wayne?" The golf clubs and putting green have mysteriously disappeared in the time I've been gone.

"Where did you go?" Bruce asks me, looking as if he already doesn't like my answer.

"The narrows. You told me to dig up information," I reply.

"And you knew about this?" Bruce accuses Alfred.

"You didn't ask, sir," Alfred says, coming to take my coat, sweatshirt, and hat, and returning them to the bin.

"Should I have to ask?" Bruce's tone is borderline angry.

"How will I know what to answer if you don't ask?"

"I think I liked it better when I was a young kid conspiring against you, not the other way around," Bruce says, but a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"Maroni and the Russian are meeting tomorrow," I barge into the conversation, "Maroni wants to end the gang war. If the meeting goes foul, who knows what could happen."

"How did you find this out?" Bruce asks, surprised.

"Just by listening," I say, "He wasn't making any secret of it."

"Good. But next time I tell you to stay out of…"

"I was following my own lead. It had nothing to do with what you were doing tonight. Which, by the way, how did that go?"

"Feely is safely ensconced in Arkham. However long he remains there is up to the guards and doctors. But Gordon increased the security of the entire island, so his chances of escape should be slim."

"Or so we hope."

"Yes," Bruce agrees, sitting down in one of the chairs and gesturing for me to join him, "Tell me how you managed your foray into the narrows."

I smile and sit down, feeling inordinately proud.

"I've prepared some tea and orange juice," Alfred says, bringing out our routine refreshments.


	19. Week 3:Tuesday

Thank you everyone for continuing to read and review my story! :D I can't tell you how happy I am to be writing again!

19: Tuesday

Disclaimer: Don't own batman

I spend the entire morning feeling slightly irked that my so-called 'day off' is not actually a 'day off' but instead a carefully disguised way of giving me more time for espionage. I'm not relaxing at all. Rather, I'm sitting on Eleanor's couch, wondering how I'm going to convince Ron Marshall to grant me audience.

"Barge right in, tell him you need to talk to him right away, and threaten to stick a knitting needle up his nose if he doesn't comply," is Eleanor's suggestion.

"Except, I believe I should try for the more subtle approach. Barging in and demanding information will only put his guard up," I protest.

"Of course. You're right, you need his defenses down. And then strike when he's vulnerable and weak."

"Eleanor, this is detective work, not a sword fight."

"But nevertheless, a battle. And a battle must be won!"

"What do you know of battles?" I ask sarcastically.

"Remember, Lyn darling," a customer calmly knitting beside me on the couch interrupts, "You're talking to a woman who, at sixty years old, has gone hang gliding, jumped out of an airplane, practices judo, raised two kids, and knits a mean Fair-Isle sweater."

"Maybe I should just send Eleanor over to do the job for me. One karate chop and he's down." I comment.

"Ron Marshall would not go down with one karate chop," Eleanor argues, "A knee to the groin, perhaps. Or a thumb lock. Why are you suddenly so interested in this activism stuff anyway?"

"I told you. Coming from a shadier side of town, I understand the need for better and safer housing, but also the need to stop Marshall from displacing the entire community."

"As long as this Tammy Williams girl doesn't get you into trouble."

"Teresa Williams. And if I get into trouble, it's for a good cause."

"Then if you believe in the cause so much, go out there and work for it," Eleanor gestures dramatically to the world outside the comfort of her yarn shop.

I sigh and sink farther into the couch, re-counting the stitches in the chemo-cap I'm working on. Eleanor marches over to the couch and pulls the hat out of my hands.

"I think two chemo-caps are enough for one day. I'll finish the third while you go protest on the street corner," Eleanor announces.

"But this one was going to utilize a much more complicated stitch pattern," I feebly try to snatch the half-finished cap back.

"Speaking of charity, why not pretend you're doing an interview for some fundraiser Marshall donated to. I'm sure he gives away bushels of money to improve his image," Eleanor suggests.

My first reaction is to dismiss the idea as another of Eleanor's extreme measures. Then I remember Bruce telling me about Marshall's overlarge donation to the new charity for Breast Cancer Research.

"Eleanor, you're a genius!" I exclaim, sweeping her into a brief hug before gathering my stuff and rushing out the door.

"Just add it to my long list of other accomplishments," Eleanor calls after me.

After stopping at the corner flower store, I catch the train to Marshall's company building. I step up to the receptionist desk and request a short appointment with Ron. Unfortunately, the receptionist insists I explain to her my reason for meeting with the head of a very busy company. I tell her I intend on thanking him for his generous donation, and she assures me most people leave thank you notes or flowers at the desk with her. I reluctantly hand over the flowers, while slipping in a simple card detailing my name, number, and a request for an interview.

I head home, dejected and frustrated. The plan was a good one. Marshall was just too busy to see a lowly nobody. On the train I distract myself by drawing. An extremely handsome man with golden, curly hair and a face like a Greek god sits across from me. Stunned to see such beauty on the train, which vaguely brings up memories of my first encounter with Bruce, I shut my gaping mouth and begin to draw. The Adonis fails to notice my attentions, probably being so accustomed to women's stares. When he finally exit's the train, I follow out of pure curiosity. Only to discover he's gotten off at the Arkham Asylum train station. I freeze in place, berating myself for being shallow and superficial enough to fall prey to godlike good looks. Everyone falters sometimes, but I could've picked a better time.

By this point, the beautiful man I'd been following disappears entirely and I'm left alone, in front of the gates of the asylum. Curiosity grips me as I stare up at the wrought iron sign. I take a deep breath and step over the threshold. I cringe, waiting to be attacked by crazy inmates, abducted by psycho psychiatrists, or struck by lightning.

Nothing happens.

So far, so good.

The yard immediately in front of the old Asylum building is deserted. The newer additions to the building must include fenced in side-yards for the inmates to use. I hesitate at the front door. Now that I think about it, it seems odd that I've lived all my life in Gotham without visiting Arkham Asylum once. Nor have I ever known anyone who worked there. With the exception of Jonathan Crane, of course.

I gently open the door, feeling as small and insignificant as a bug, and step inside the echoing hall. A woman in an outfit right out of an insane asylum horror movie stands behind an ancient desk. Dust and dirt cover what once was probably a grand entryway.

"Hello," the woman says in an overly sweet, high voice, "How may I help you?" she appears slightly confused, "We don't usually get many visitors." Her words echo across the room.

"Didn't a man come in right before me?" I ask, surprised.

"I don't believe so," the woman says slowly, "Of course, I could have forgotten." she giggles.

"Oh, trust me, you would not have forgotten this man," I assure her, returning her grin.

"Are you here to observe the patients?" the woman asks, leaning forward against the desk and looking positively gleeful, "Because technically we don't allow that anymore. But if you say you're a relative, then I can still get you in."

"Um, no," I say, searching for a reason other than pure and simple curiosity, "Wait. Yes, I actually am here to visit a patient. He was recently transferred in. Have you heard of Jacob Feely?"

"Ooooh, Jacob Feely!" the woman squeals, "Who hasn't heard of him? Would you like to see him?"

"Yes, that's what I just said…"

"Come on!" she bounds around her desk, snatches up my hand and pulls me away.

It would seem the workers here are just as insane as the patients.

"I'm Harleen Quinzel, by the way. Soon to be Dr. Harleen Quntzel once my night school is finished," she smiles radiantly back at me, "I just love the brain!"

"I'm glad," I say awkwardly.

"I've worked here at old Arkham for six years now. I'm so happy Jacob's back with us. Truly, his fellow inmates missed him."

I find it hard to imagine anyone missing Jacob Feely. We stop in front of a high security cell. Harleen swipes an ID card to open the door.

"You'll have to talk through the bars. I'm afraid after Jacob's recent escape attempt, we've had to install tighter security restrictions here."

"That's fine. I'd prefer it that way, actually," I confess, hesitantly making my way closer to Jacob Feely's cell. I had never expected to actually be standing in front of the man I helped imprison. Truly, I had expected Harleen to turn me away at the front door.

"Jacob?" I ask softly," It's…uh….Lyn. The archivist."

A dark shape moves in a corner. Jacob sits up from his cot and turns to face me.

"Couldn't stay away? Where's your boyfriend to protect you?" Jacob asks.

"Busy," I reply, "I'd like to talk to you about…about why you were placed in Arkham in the first place. I'm just curious."

"Writing an archive file on me?"

"Adding onto one. The file on you was woefully slim last time I checked."

"How intriguing!" I've captured Jacob's interest. He pulls forward a chair, and slumps down into it, "What do you want to know?"

"What did you do exactly?"

"What I usually do…I made things explode."

"Why?"

"Well, at the time I was working for the mob. But really, I just did it for the exhilaration."

"You worked for the mob?"

"Oh yes, I was very friendly with Carmine Falcone. Up until a point."

"What point? The point when you got caught?"

"No, the point when I decided being a pawn of Carmine Falcone was boring."

"Not to sound like a broken record but, what did you do?"

"I turned traitor. Dimitrov had it in for Carmine Falcone back then. The two were always at odds."

"You worked for Dimitrov instead?"

"I acted as a double agent in favor of Dimitrov. I orchestrated explosives in plots to assassinate Carmine Falcone. I single-handedly masterminded the plot that, had I not been betrayed by the Russian himself, would have meant the death of the king of the mob bosses. Yes, I belonged to the mob's inner circle for a long time. And when I decided it was time to go out, I knew I had to get out with a bang." He chuckles at his own joke.

"You jeopardized your life in trying to get out of the mob and ended up here?"

"Indeed. Once you're in the mob, you're in for life. Carmine Falcone, Alberto Falcone, Danilo Pauli, Salvatore Maroni…"

"Wait, did you say, Danilo Pauli?" I ask.

"'The Roman' Falcone, 'The Boss' Maroni, and 'Little Paul' Pauli," Jacob confirms, "The three most powerful men of the Gotham mafia." Jacob's cruel smile shows he is aware of the effect his words will have.

"Impossible," I utter a barely audible whisper.

"Danilo Pauli was killed for being involved with the Russian's assassination attempts. It's said Carmine Falcone ordered him killed personally, and sent Salvatore Maroni to do it."

"I…of course….I must go now," I flee the scene.

"What's a scumbag like Pauli to you anyway?" Jacob asks mockingly.

I refuse to answer, to him or to my own conscience, closing the door firmly behind me.

"Did the visit go well?" Harleen asks brightly.

"Much different than I expected," I stammer in relief, "Can you show me the way out now?"

"That I can. Follow me!" she steps lightly, almost a skip without both feet leaving the ground, down the hall. Along the way I notice the portraits of the Asylum's previous owners lined across the walls, situated in between the doors of the cells. One of the portraits is of a woman with curly blonde hair and an infectious smile. I stop short in front of the painting, staring at the most recent owner.

"I see you've met my mom," Harleen says, materializing beside me.

"You're mom?"

"She was the daughter of the Asylum's previous owner. She fell madly in love with Pete Quinzel, one of the inmates here at the time."

"Oh," is all I can think to say, "You grew up here then?"

"I did! And I will inherit the asylum when my father retires."

We continue on down the hallway, but I can't shake the weird feeling I received from Mrs Quinzel's portrait. A few doctors pass by us, but one glimpse of Harleen and they refuse to make eye contact. Each one walks tentatively, as if expecting death around every corner.

"Come back again!" Harleen says in a sing-song voice, "We miss having visitors."

I nod unconvincingly, and step outside. My walk back to the train station is surprisingly uneventful. Despite the horrific stories and warnings, the grounds of Arkham Asylum are strangely peaceful. Although deserted, somehow being so close to danger makes me feel almost safe. As if, because I'm defying the terror Arkham's inmates evoke, I'm becoming untouchable. As soon as I step past the gates, however, the noise and grit of the city returns, bringing with it the harsh reality of danger. On the train platform I strike up a conversation with the two security guards, who are armed and well prepared for disaster.

Or so I thought.

Midway through our discussion on the sad state of the narrows, Patrick, one of the cops, suddenly turns alert. He glances around skittishly.

"Did you hear that?" he asks.

"No," Richard, the other cop, replies.

We fall into a tense silence, straining to hear the smallest sounds. Out of the corner of my eye I see a shadow move. I nearly alert my newfound friends to the movement, but then two distinctly triangle shaped points emerge from the shadow.

Batboy to save the day.

Except as of the moment, there's nothing to rescue me from.

The high pitched squeal of tires and grinding brakes belies my previous statement. The three of us on the platform watch in shock as two unmarked vans screech to a halt in the abandoned train station parking lot below us. The way the trains were built, it was assumed people would drive to the station, park their cars, and take the train downtown. Train tracks were built above the streets with the parking lots on the ground level. We were trapped with no where to go and nothing to do except watch.

Recognizable mob members climb out of the vans. The two most famous being Dimitrov and Maroni. I crouch down behind Patrick and Richard, listening to their whispers.

"What do you think our chances are, taking on all of them at once?" Patrick asks.

"Absolute zero," Richard says darkly, glaring down at the mobsters, "Especially with Lynnet here to protect. We should station ourselves at the top of either stairs, and if anyone tries to get up here, shoot on sight."

Patrick nods his assent. They leave me sitting in the middle of the platform and take up stance by the rickety metal stairs. I knew, however, that if Maroni caught a glimpse of me here in the narrows, I would be dead. No matter how determined these two cops were.

Yet the revelation doesn't prevent me from surreptitiously watching the confrontation below. The meeting does not go well. Dimitrov begins to yell, accusing Maroni of encroaching on his territory. Maroni, in turn, accuses Dimitrov of instigating fights between the rival gangs.

"Go back to Italy!" Dimitrov barks and pulls out his gun, shooting the man farthest along the line of Italian mafia.

Maroni's people return fire, wounding some of Dimitrov's men in seconds. Somehow, in the warped minds of mobsters, killing off henchmen is perfectly acceptable. Dimitrov and Maroni were safe from nearly all bullet fire, not even receiving the slightest scratch.

As I watch the world freezes around me. Transfixed by the carnage, I can't tear my eyes away. I feel faint. Despite the blood I've dealt with, the injuries, all the things I've seen, I'm not prepared for ruthless, pointless killing.

I'm deaf and blind to Patrick's frantic screams directed at me.

"Lynnet!"

The sound of my name finally catches my attention and my surroundings snap back into focus. Right in time for me to see a burly thug pointing a gun directly at me. A few paces behind the man, Patrick lies unconscious or dead. In the split second it takes for me to register all that has happened, a cable painfully flicks across my ankles and snatches hold. I hear a blast of gunfire, then I'm yanked off my feet. Cement scrapes across my body, tearing up the palm of my hand. I cry out in pain, but the minute I slam into the ground I'm already starting to force myself up. Kicking free of the cable that probably saved my life, I'm briefly distracted by a hoarse yell of anguish from where my attacker had been. Now all that's left is a dark figure pounding away on a cowering man. The discarded gun lies two feet away from me.

My hand and arm are bleeding, but I force myself towards Patrick, willing him to still be alive. I check his pulse and to my relief, he's breathing. There's a gigantic lump at the back of his head, but other than being knocked out, Patrick made it out of this scuffle okay. It's my hand leaving the trails of blood across his shirt.

"Patrick, Lynnet!" Richard comes running over, having dealt with the attackers who had advanced on him. I assume they're either dead or wounded. To my surprise, I find I don't care.

A dark thought in the back of my head tells me that these men tried to kill two cops who, although I'd only known them for an hour, didn't deserve to die. Not to mention one of the thugs tried to shoot me. I should be justified in whishing death on them. But the sane part of me knows this isn't the case. These men, although guilty of attempted murder, did not deserve such a brutal death. Richard attends his wounded friend, who finally stirs, regaining consciousness.

I leave the two of them to search for batman. He's nowhere to be seen. I edge forward to the railing separating me from the mobsters below. Peering over, I can't see any movement. The vans are gone, the men are gone, any bodies are gone, and all that's left is debris. Trembling, I step back.

"Why did you come here?" batman appears before me, his cloak enveloping around him.

"I went to Arkham Asylum. To talk to Feely. Marshall was a dud."

Batman says nothing, leaping onto the railing and crouching as if ready to take flight. Before he does, he turns back to look at me, a strange half grin visible under his cowl.

"I might be a little late to dinner," he says gruffly.

He swan dives off the railing, spreading his wings behind him. I stand perfectly still, entranced.

I'm not the only one, Richard comes over to the rail to watch batman fly off into the night as well.

"What did he say to you?" Richard asks.

"He asked me what I knew of the meeting." I mumble, quietly, "I didn't know anything. I think he knew because he didn't say anything else. Just left."

My story must have fit with other tales of the bat, for the cop merely nodded knowingly.

"And here comes backup, finally," Richard says wryly, pointing at the flashing red and blue lights in the distance.

The cop cars pull up, sirens blaring. There's nothing much left for them to do, unfortunately. Except for the two men Richard wounded, and a couple unconscious people on the platform batman got to, most of the mob members escaped.

After seeing the badly wounded gang members into ambulances and getting the rest into the police cars, Gordon comes up to talk to Richard and Patrick.

"We had no warning. They arrived in unmarked vans and started shooting at each other. The gang war is getting out of hand," Patrick says, rubbing the back of his head.

"Which gangs were involved?" Gordon asks.

"The Russian and Maroni," Richard tells him, "Sounded as if the argument was instigated by conflicts over territory."

"And who are you?" Gordon asks, noticing me for the first time.

"Lynnet Pearl," I introduce myself to him for the second time, "We've met. But you probably don't remember."

"I thought I recognized you. Another spot of bad luck, eh? Perhaps you should learn to stay out of areas like this," Gordon warns me.

"It's hard to avoid areas where friends and family reside," I explain, looking slightly disdainful.

"You have friends in Arkham?" Gordon's voice drips with disbelief.

"The daughter of the owner," I invent, feeling fairly confident the effervescent blonde would gladly name me as her friend even after having only one encounter.

"Harleen," Gordon says, "I heard she was as crazy as her inmates. Either way, what did you see? Anything useful?"

"Batman came to our rescue. He saved my life," I tell him.

"He talked to her too," Richard says, sounding impressed.

"Oh?" Gordon quirks an eyebrow at me.

"He asked the same question you did: did I see or know anything. I told him no, and he left."

"Definitely him," Gordon says.

"Who else would wear a cape and cowl?" Patrick asks jokingly.

"You'd be surprised. I helped some kid who, only 18, wearing his father's motorcycle helmet and a black costume cape, tried to stop a mugging. The kid almost got himself killed," Richard says.

"There are copy cats?" I ask, incredulous.

"Copy bats," Gordon corrects. He sighs and motions for us to return to the cars, "Good work Patrick, Richard. I'll see that you two are promoted. After an ordeal like this, you deserve it. Miss Pearl, I'll give you a ride to wherever you're going."

"Not that an ordeal like this isn't a usual thing for a Gotham cop," Patrick remarks to Richard.

The two share a laugh over the horrible shooting gallery. I suppose, in hindsight, the luck of surviving to tell the tale is indeed something worth chuckling over.

"I'll take the train back, thanks," I say, stepping back towards the train tracks.

"Are you crazy?" Richard asks.

"I don't want to be a burden."

"Nonsense, we'll drop you off wherever you need to go," Gordon assures me.

I comply and follow him into the unmarked car. Would Gordon remain true to his promise and take me to the shipyard? I doubt it.

So instead I ask him to take me to Eleanor's.

Who takes one look at my ripped up hand and arm, shoos me into the store, and fusses over me.

"How did you manage this, Lynnet?" Eleanor asks.

"I fell down," I lie, wincing as she cleans the scrapes, "And I'm perfectly capable of doing this on my own." I'm not about to tell her the truth in front of her entire knitting group. Who, by the way, have arranged themselves in a circle around us without dropping a single stitch. They hover, still knitting away, but clucking at the state of my hand.

"She'll never knit again, the poor girl," Margie laments.

"Oh, she'll knit again. It'll just take a couple weeks to heal, I'm afraid," Jocelyn corrects.

"But it doesn't look broken, so at least the bones won't have to knit together," Patti, ever the clown, pipes up.

"Six years of school, and I should certainly hope you can clean a scrape" Eleanor says, "but nevertheless, the point is that I need to take care of my baby so stay seated and stop resisting."

"Thank you," I reply meekly, consenting to her treatment.

My bag immediately starts buzzing.

"That's my phone," I say, trying to free my hand in order to answer the call.

"Let me," Eleanor reaches inside my bag and pulls out the phone.

"Oh!" she exclaims, after reading the caller ID.

"Who is it?" Margie asks. The bevy of knitters converge again, this time eagerly awaiting a bit of gossip.

"Well, I read the newspaper, but I had dismissed it as rumor…" Eleanor starts to say.

"Eleanor, please!" I snatch the phone out of her hand and flip it open, "Hi, sorry. I'm a bit of a mess still."

"I just got back myself," Bruce says, "Alfred should be coming by to pick you up momentarily."

"Eleanor's shop," I say, "Are you…" I search for words that won't sound strange to the eavesdropping crowd, "…feeling okay? We can do this another night."

"I didn't get myself shot again, if that's what you mean. I'm fine, Lyn. I'll see you at the restaurant soon."

"Okay. I love you too," I add for the benefit of Eleanor and her friends.

"What?" Bruce sounds slightly shocked.

I smile mischievously and hang up.

"Lyn, was that truly the Bruce Wayne?" Eleanor asks, wide eyed.

"I think that's my business," I say mysteriously and disappear out the door and into the waiting car.

"This is for you, Miss Pearl," Alfred says, passing back a rather bulky bag.

"What for?" I ask, unzipping it and pulling out yards of fabric.

"I took the liberty of preparing appropriate attire for you since I knew there wouldn't be much time."

"Thank you!" I say, a little relieved. I finally reach the end of a long, slinky gown and hold it up, "You picked this out?"

"I was told it was the latest trend."

I laugh at the image of Alfred in a shop, looking through women's gowns, and motion for him to put up the divider. And I'll be the first to admit, getting changed and doing one's hair in the back of a car is not fun.

Alfred drops me off at the restaurant an hour later than our reservation time. I desperately hope finding my table is a lot easier than last time. Just as I'm about to go in the restaurant a stylish car pulls up beside me and Bruce unfolds himself from the driver's seat.

"Sorry I'm late. Lots of traffic," He tells me, sliding an arm around my shoulder and leading me towards the restaurant.

"Oh, me too," I reply.

We're let into the restaurant almost immediately.

"You know, if we were anyone else, our table would have been gone 45 minutes ago," I whisper to Bruce across from our semi-private table.

Bruce just laughs.

I scowl, "No one is actually listening. Can't you drop the act?"

"What act?" he asks innocently.

"That one," I say, studying the menu, "Drop it or else I'll be the first girl ever to leave Bruce Wayne sitting alone at a dinner table."

Bruce's silly grin falters for a half second.

"What did you find out from Feely?" Bruce asks.

I nearly lose my grip on the menu in surprise. I stare at the man across from me. The person I'm looking at and the person I'm hearing are two completely different personalities. How does he do it?  
"Not much," I say, "Why are you still smiling? Is there a cameraman somewhere?"

"At the table behind the fake tree."

"I see," I say, putting down the menu, "In that case, it's my turn to act."

I turn on my false networking smile and prepare to flirt outrageously. It's time Bruce got a dose of his own medicine.

"Do you anyone by the name Danilo Pauli?" I ask coyly, looking at Bruce over my water glass.

Bruce raises an eyebrow, "Who?"

"Feely mentioned him. As well as Carmine Falcone and Salvatore Maroni."

"I haven't heard of Pauli. Do you think you can find anything on him in the archives?"

"I'll try. Feely made it sound as if this Pauli was as big a name in the mob as Falcone or Maroni."

"A new threat then?"

'No, an old one. The man's dead."

"What's his significance then?"

"I have no idea. That's why I was asking you," I flip my hair over my shoulder and start laughing daintily as the waitress comes up to take our order. To anyone else in the restaurant, the appearance of this being a normal date was flawless. Well, as normal as a date with the most popular man in Gotham can be.

As soon as the waitress leaves, Bruce asks the question I've been anticipating from the beginning.

"Why do you keep managing to put yourself in harms way?" he asks.

"Isn't that a bit of a double standard, batboy?"

Bruce laughs arrogantly, "But I have training."

If I hadn't known he was acting, I would probably have gotten up and left right then.

"And unless you haven't noticed, I'm very stubborn. Kind of like you, actually," I lean casually on the table to look Bruce straight in the eye, "Besides, at least I don't have a habit of showing off."

"What are you hinting at?"

"Oh, I don't know," I say, tilting my head and playing dumb, "Maybe something like leaping across rooftops in a car. Or jumping off buildings. Or a certain incident in front of Mary and Floyd."

"You think I was showing off?"

"I've gone over just about every other excuse, and that seems to be the best one." Keeping my smile fixed on my face is becoming increasingly difficult.

"I wasn't…" Bruce stops, at a loss for words, "I don't know what I was thinking."

"Do you love Rachel Dawes?"

"What?" my question catches him off guard, "Rachel? No, we're just old friends."

"So kissing friends is a normal thing for your?"

"How did you know I kissed Rachel?"

"I didn't. I guessed."

Bruce sighs and looks down at the wine glass in his hand.

"I'm sorry I kissed you," he says seriously, "But didn't it work out for the best?"

"Oh yes. This date is wonderfully fun."

"What would you rather have?" Bruce asks, laughing.

"A real date."

Bruce takes my comment as a joke.

"I'm serious," I protest, "Working with you has really done a number on my social schedule. Today I told Gordon the insane daughter of Arkham Asylum's owner was my friend. Clearly, I'm getting desperate."

"I don't think I've ever been introduced to the daughter of Arkham Asylum's owner. Is she pleasant?"

"Her name's Harleen. She's…energetic."

"Well, all I can say is…you better not start dating someone while we're dating. It could lead to awkward questions from the paparazzi."

"Or we could just say we're in an open relationship," I say, winking, "Make things even more interesting."

Bruce smiles a dazzling, glittering smile that nearly causes me to lose character.

"What now?" I ask.

"You're joking with me again," he says, looking smug.

"And your point is…"

"You must have forgiven me."

"Not that easily," I say, but my own smile gives me away.

"How can I make it up to you then?"

I pretend to think about the idea for a while.

"Teach me to fight," I say eagerly.

Bruce's eyebrows nearly reach his hairline.

"You want to learn how to fight?" he asks.

"I'm sick of being the one who's only wound in a battle is a scrape from being yanked to the ground."

"Yanked to the ground to avoid a bullet," Bruce argues.

"Yes, but the fact remains, it doesn't make for a very heroic story."

Bruce considers my proposition.

"What if I fulfill my promise to teach you to ride a motorcycle first?" he offers.

"Sounds good to me," I say, grinning ear to ear, "When can we start?"

"Tonight," Bruce says, looking excited, "If we can survive the rest of dinner and the entirety of _The Sound Of Music_."

"I could survive anything if I have motorcycle lessons to look forward to," I say.

Or so I thought until the waitress reappears and places my dish in front of me. I had ordered a random item off the menu since I didn't recognize anything. Apparently this was not the best method if one wants something edible. Being Bruce Wayne's debutante girlfriend will take some time getting used to.


	20. Week 3:Wednesday

20: Thank you readers and reviewers! :D And thank you to my new beta, Soccer_Bitch

Disclaimer: Don't own batman!

After the excitement of yesterday, work seems especially boring and monotonous. I have yet to hear anything more from Ron Marshall, and my search for Danilo Pauli proves to be fruitless. Unfolding the most recent newspaper, the society section falls out of the center, drifting to rest on my feet.

Probably a fitting place for it.

I crumple the paper without glancing at the headline and toss it in the growing pile of useless newspapers. Recycling misinformed articles seems to be routine for me now.

"Hello!"

I look up at the sound of a voice to see a very muscular, broad shouldered young man who appears to have taken a wrong turn while looking for the company gym.

"My apologies, sir, but I believe you're on the wrong floor," I say, smiling pleasantly back at him.

"I don't believe so," he says, chuckling light heartedly, "I was told to go down to the basement. And this certainly looks like a basement. I was hoping for a tour."

"The Wayne exercise facilities are on the fourth floor. I'm sure they'd be happy to…"

"Exercise facilities?" he starts laughing, "No, I'm looking for the archives!" he drops a duffel bag on the floor near my desk and wanders over to the first filing cabinet.

"Oh," I say stupidly.

"I used to live here in Gotham," he starts to explain while trekking a circle around my desk, peering down each isle, "And I remember hearing stories about how extensive Wayne Enterprises Archives were. So I thought I'd come take a look."

"I suppose these files are pretty impressive."

"The largest in Gotham."

"Is that a fact?" I ask, surprised not to have known that information myself. A split second later I remember who I'm talking to, "Do you have clearance to be down here?"

"Not exactly. But the elevator didn't have any restrictions. Is there any reason I shouldn't be down here?"

"Well as long as you don't actually look in the files…"

"Which to make sure I follow that rule, you should give me a tour yourself," he suggests, smiling.

"I don't even know who you are."

"You can call me Drake," he says, shaking my hand enthusiastically, "And you were partially correct about looking for the gym. I stopped by here on my way home from Gotham Fitness. My mom keeps berating me to get a job now that I'm out of college, and I figured I'd stop by to take a look at Wayne Enterprises."

"I see," I say, a little skeptically, "I'll tell you what: you can follow me while I complete these files, and I'll tell you a little bit about the archives here." I slide out of my chair and check the first file label.

"These archives have pretty much been here since the start of Wayne Enterprises back in the 17th century. Naturally things have expanded quite a bit since then," I say, slipping a file into place and moving on to the next. As I go I describe the company-approved history of Wayne Enterprises. Drake no-last-name smiles, listens, and nods along, trailing after me. Usually when I take people through the archives their feelings of claustrophobia or apprehensions at being lost quickly become apparent on their faces. This guy, who couldn't be more than twenty, seems completely comfortable.

Halfway through my stack of files I come a cross a folder that should have been in front. Mentally scolding myself for sloppy work I swivel around and lead Drake in the opposite direction. A short maze of filing cabinets later, I put the file in the correct spot.

"Not to be presumptuous, but didn't we do a little backtracking there?" Drake asks, "How is your file system organized? It seems to me like there could be a much more efficient way of doing it."

I bristle at his criticism of my fastidious file system.

"It appears that you have all of the files in one system. Did you ever consider having separate archives for records management and historic documents?" Drake continues.

Although I'm prepared to take offence at his comments, the tone of his voice is not superior or condescending but rather logical and matter-of-fact.

"Actually, the fault was all mine. I put a file in the wrong order," I say, calming myself down, "The system set up here works fine. And these archives are a little…unusual anyway."

Back at my desk, realization hits me. This kid not only knew a thing or two about file systems, but was also able to maintain a sense of direction in the archives. That was a huge feat. The last time someone could make sense of the maze down here on their first day was when Mr. Waltham introduced me to my new job. I eye Drake more closely.

"Just who sent you down here, exactly?" I ask, suspecting foul play.

"A very lovely receptionist upstairs," Drake says, smiling.

"No, I mean, who put you up to this?" I ask again, "You've proven that you could successfully navigate this basement. No one alive except me can do that. So what's going on?"

"Of course I can find my way around," he laughs, "It's not that difficult."

Before I can answer the elevator pings and Mr. Fox steps out, engrossed in a stack of paper.

"Good afternoon, Miss Pearl," he says without looking up.

"Hi," I say.

"Good afternoon," Drake says.

Mr. Fox's head jerks up involuntarily.

"Drake, what are you doing here?" he asks, looking puzzled.

"Mom suggested I go job hunting," Drake says.

"If you had told me you were considering Wayne Enterprises…"

"Gee thanks Dad, but I was kind of hoping I could get a job on my own," Drake replies looking disgruntled.

"Getting the job would be up to you, but I can help you get a foot in the door," Mr. Fox points out sternly.

In order to prevent an argument I get in between the two, "Wait! Slow down." I turn to Mr. Fox, "You have a son?"

"Three, actually. Drake is my youngest," Mr. Fox admits.

"Excuse me while I process this information," I say, dropping into my seat and wondering how I could have worked with someone for nearly six years and not known he had a family. Certainly Mr. Fox was a very private person, but this didn't seem like something that could be kept a secret for very long. Going through my memory, it becomes clear how little I know of Mr. Fox's personal life. Meanwhile, the two continue to talk over my head.

I consider the fact that lately it seems like my multiple jobs and extracurricular activities have become too strenuous for me. Not to mention the fact that having an extra hand around would give me more time to do research for Mr. Wayne.

"Hold on," I say, interrupting the conversation with an outstretched hand, "You know, Mr. Fox…I could use an assistant."

Mr. Fox stops short in his sentence.

Drake, however, jumps at the opportunity, "You could? Well, that's wonderful! I could start on Monday." He watches his father's reaction.

"Are you serious about this, Lyn?" Mr. Fox asks.

"Of course. Drake was able to figure out where a file belonged after only one round through the maze," I say, pulling out some paperwork, "And if he's even half as intelligent as you, Mr. Fox, then hiring Drake will be one of the best decisions I've made in my entire career."

Drake's smile widens.

"Just fill out your information here," I pass the papers over to him, "And bring in a resume and cover letter on Monday. We still need to go through the formal process and interviews."

"Great!" Drake slings his gym bag over his shoulder, "I'll get working on that as soon as I get home," he gives us a friendly wave goodbye and disappears into the elevator.

"Smartest move in your career?" Mr. Fox raises an eyebrow.

"It sounded like he could use a little confidence boosting," I say, grinning sweetly.

"Confidence is not his problem," Mr. Fox says, but smiles fondly, "He's a good kid but I have to admit he has never worked a day in his life. I'm not certain how well he'll adjust."

"If you think I'd put up with a lazy assistant, Mr. Fox, you clearly know me about as well as I apparently know you."

"Then I guess it's a good thing I know you won't," Mr. Fox says, grinning.

I laugh.

"Who was that gorgeous guy asking me about archives, Lyn?" Mary asks, arriving just as Mr. Fox was about to leave.

"My son," Mr. Fox says, keeping a straight face despite the laughter in his eyes.

Mary's jaw hangs loose as Mr. Fox walks off to Applied Sciences.

"Was he serious?" Mary leans over my desk to whisper the question.

"Of course he was serious," I say, pulling the papers Mary was carrying out of her hand and flipping through them. I pause as I come to a sealed envelope, picking it out of the stack.

"Oh yeah, that came for you and I considered steaming it open but decided it wasn't worth it," Mary said.

"Thanks," I rip open the seal and pull out a letter written by someone who never learned how to hold a pen properly. "How did you know it was for me?"

"All the person who gave it to me said was 'archives' and then they left."

"And what did this person look like?" I ask, trying to coax information out of her.

"He had on some kind of security outfit. I couldn't tell what it was for. He also had these strange scars…"

"No one I'd recognize?"

"No, trust me you'd remember this guy," Mary laughs, "And not in a good way."

I scan the note, trying to make sense of the confusing short sentences done in all capital letters. From what I could decipher, Jacob Feely was using a third party to let me know he wanted to talk to me. He implies that he has information for me. Did I dare return to Arkham Asylum and push my luck twice in one week?

"Lyn, are you okay? You look like somebody died," Mary says, trying to pull the letter out of my hand.

"I'm fine," I say, slipping the letter into a drawer before she can get to it, "It's all nonsense. Probably just some raving lunatic who is confusing me with someone else."

"Right, and you're going to keep a raving lunatic's letter instead of throwing it in the trash where it belongs?" Mary laughs and tries to get at the desk drawer. I clamp it shut with my foot.

"All right, you win," I say, adding a defeated tone to my voice, "I'll admit. The letter is a secret love poem from Bruce to me."

Mary stares blankly at me for half a second before she bursts out laughing, "I don't know which story to believe more. That you've become friends with a crazy person, or that Bruce Wayne writes poetry."

"He's actually very sensitive," I protest.

"Who, Bruce Wayne or the crazy person?" Mary teases.

"The one who is right behind you."

Mary and I nearly jump in fright, whirling around to face a severely un-amused Bruce Wayne.

"Mary please make your way back to the receptionist desk. We're paying you to take calls and greet visitors, not to gossip," Bruce says sternly.

"Yes, sir," Mary says, turning a brilliant shade of pink.

As soon as she's gone, Bruce turns to me with a strange look on his face, "Poetry?"

"Yup. You could be the next Edgar Allen Poe," I say, barely keeping a straight face, "Or T. S. Elliot."

"No thank you."

I hand him the letter and his eyes immediately narrow in consternation.

"I don't know what this is supposed to mean. But I recognize the handwriting," he says, "It's identical to the writing left on the wall of a bank safe a couple days ago."

"So, this is from a bank robber…" I conclude, "A bank robber who had access to Feely in Arkham, and was able to get out and possibly hand deliver this to our door. That can't be good."

"The bank robber is a one man operation. So far all he's hit a couple banks, but hasn't walked off with any significant amounts of cash. Currently, he's our lowest priority," Bruce explains, "What is Jacob Feely doing contacting you anyway?"

"From what I can gather, he's decided to give me more information."

"Go to Arkham. Find out what he wants," Bruce instructs, "And if you can, get him to talk about this mysterious author."

"And you?"

"Maroni is holding another meeting tonight. I thought I'd make an appearance."

"Sounds good."

Hours later I find myself once again on the night train to the narrows. Except this time I intentionally disembark at the Arkham Station. Going to the asylum a second time takes away some of the irrational fear I felt initially. As I push open the double door, I'm greeted with a hearty welcome from Harleen.

"Frizz! I'm so happy to see you again!" she bounds forward and wraps me in a crushing hug.

"It's Lynnet Pearl, actually," I say after extracting myself from her rather strong grip.

"Whatever you say, Frizz," she waves away my protests at the nickname and plants herself behind the reception desk, "You can call me Harley. Everyone does."

"Okay, Harley. I'm here to see Jacob Feely again," I tell her.

"You're not the only one;" Harley says mysteriously, "Jacob's been getting awfully popular lately."

"Really? Who's been going to see him?"

"Our security guy."

"Security guy?"

"He's a genius! Set up the entire new system. Said this one is fool proof!"

"What does this guy look like?"

"Kind of drab. Does nothing but frown," Harley's entire demeanor changes. She goes from perky and happy, to subdued in an instant.

"Does he have scars on his face?" I ask, hesitantly.

She tilts her head, putting a finger to her chin in thought, "hmmm….you know I think he might!"

I stifle a gasp, "Harley," I grab hold of her shoulders, "You need to listen to me. This guy is a bank robber. If he's doing your security, then Arkham's not safe. You need to find someone new and alert the police now!"

"A bank robber?" Harley laughs, "Are you joking? How could someone who is so good at security systems rob banks?"

"Exactly!"

"No, you must be mistaken," Harley slips away from me and starts to walk down the hall, "I trust Jack. He may be a bore, but he does try."

"Harley listen to me!" I trot after her, "When did you hire this guy?"

""He's been working here for ages," Harley says dismissively.

"And has anything changed recently? Like within the past couple of weeks?"

"Of course it has! I told you, we have a new system."

"I mean…has he changed?" Harley's ever cheerful evasions of my questions are beginning to frustrate me.

Harley pauses mid-skip, "Actually, I helped him change his outlook on life a little."

"Helped him? Helped him how, Harley?"

She turns away from me, staring at the wall in front of her. I look past her shoulder to see we've stopped directly in front of her mother's portrait again.

"I never leave the asylum," Harley tells me, "Mother always used to say it was too dangerous. She taught me everything I needed to know. I hadn't stepped foot outside Arkham's door for twenty years until two weeks ago. When Jack asked me to go to dinner with him. I went. Even though I didn't find him attractive at all. He's too serious. Anyway, after sitting through long minutes of boring conversation, he finally begins to come alive and asks me, 'What do you do when your job starts to become too easy?' and I tell him that my job never becomes too easy because people's minds will always surprise you. And he asks, 'But what if your so good at what you do, that you no longer find it interesting?' to which I asked him if he considered himself too perfect to be a security guy anymore. And his face falls back into the eternally depressed smile created by his scars, and all signs of life disappear from his face. Of course, by then I'm feeling kinda bad since he was being so nice, taking me out to dinner and all. So I tell him, 'If a person can do a job perfectly, then they have to continue doing that job perfectly for the sake of all those who have no skills. If you're good at something, and can be the best…be the best!' I thought my advice was rather obvious and common place. Everyone knows they should try their best. But the look he gave me…it was as if he was inspired. And he had the most devilish grin." Harley's grinning face, lost in memories, is as devilish as the one she's describing.

"So what has happened in the past two weeks?" I ask, drawing her back to reality.

"Oh," she says, her grin sliding off her face, "Nothing. Jack went back to being the boring security worker he'll always be."

"Are you sure?"

Harley ignores my question, an ear to ear smile reappearing on her face, "So you see! He hasn't changed one bit. And he'd never cause any problems for Arkham."

Harley skips down the hall and skids to a stop in front of Feely's cell.

"Here's the bee's hive!" she announces, "Your female friend is here again, Jacobeely."

"Thank you," I say quietly, stepping into the room.

"I'll be right outside if you need anything," Harley tells me, smiling. I stand perfectly still, watching the man slumped on the chair in front of me. I hear the door click shut, and I know we're alone.

"You said you knew something," I prompt.

He slowly lifts his head up to face me, the greasy long hair dragging along the sides of his face.

"I knew everyone in Falcone's inner circle."

"So you said," I respond.

"I knew your father too."

"So the rumors say."

"Then you are aware your father's real name was Pauli. Not Dan Pearl as most believe."

"As I said: it is a rumor. Give me one good reason to believe you."

"Your father already did. I suggest you take a good look around that attic of yours. Ever wonder why the chimney seemed to just end on the fourth floor of your home? Why not explore that section of the attic?" he leans back in his chair, rocking on two of the legs, "Just a suggestion."

"Okay, but tell me what you know first," I take a step forward, crossing my arms stubbornly.

"The three Italians: Carmine Falcone, Salvatore Maroni, and Danilo Pauli. Heirs to two of the most powerful families in America, and one with the closest family connections to Italy. And the three closest friends anyone could imagine."

"My father would never have been friends with gang members," I defend him uselessly.

"The father you knew probably wouldn't have been. He tried to clean up, get a respectable job at the hospital, and even change his name by taking his wife's last name. Unfortunately, friends in the mafia business never last long. When they were older, Carmine Falcone gained complete power, leaving Pauli to do the business connections between Gotham and Italy. Maroni ended up the one with the least influence. Jealous of Falcone, Maroni began plotting assassination attempts against Falcone. Maroni used the Russian gang to cover up his involvement in the assassination attempts. What Pauli's involvement with the whole thing was, I don't know. I do know, when you're father died at his hospital in the shootout six years ago, Falcone was supposed to die in his place."

"Maroni tried to have Falcone killed...and my father got involved somehow?"

"Correct. I helped build half the bombs and devices that were used in Maroni's attempts on Falcone. Every one failed. Falcone seemed impossible to kill. Until the batman came along, that is."

"The batman didn't kill Carmine Falcone. No one knows what happened to him. For all we know, he could still be alive."

"True, but I highly doubt that," Feely stands up and turns his back to me, "The Falcone family is ruined, whether or not he's actually dead doesn't matter. His power is gone, replaced with Salvatore Maroni." Feely looks at me, a deadly gleam in his eye, "Perhaps one of Maroni's plans succeeded after all. Who can prove it?"

I think back to Alberto Falcone and my precious sketchbooks.

"Who can prove it, indeed," I say quietly.

Feely takes two strides forward and placed his hands against the green tinted glass separating us. I take an involuntary step backward.

"Help me out of here, and I'll help you get the information you want," he asks breathlessly.

"I thought you were the one bragging about how you could get out of here without help," I say, crossing my arms and eyeing him suspiciously, "And you told me where I could find information. Remember?"

"Some information, not the whole story. For that you need me."

"Or Maroni. Perhaps I could stroll right up to his house and ask him."

"You could. You would also then be dead," he agrees, "Look, the new security system is fool proof. The guy they've got is an underappreciated genius, and now they've finally given him complete reign over Arkham Asylum. I can't get out without help. You know I don't deserve to be in here."

"You're right. You don't deserve to be in here, you deserve to be in a windowless jail cell, rotting forever. But I'm afraid I'll have to settle with seeing you kept here. I'm not helping you."

I turn my back on the man who confirmed my worst suspicions about my father and walk out of the cell.

"Lynnet Pauli!" Feely calls desperately, banging his fists on the glass.

"Never call me that," I hiss, "And don't try contacting me again."

Just as I'm about to turn the handle of the door, it springs open, slamming me against the wall. For a minute I find myself out of breath. I can barely see a man in a purple suit opening the glass of Feely's cage. By the time my head clears, I'm alone in the cell. I use the door to pull myself up from the floor, and run outside, only to find Harley lying unconscious in the hallway.

"Harley," I gently shake her, "Harley, please wake up. You have to tell me which way they went."

My attempt to rouse her fails. I stand up, dialing Bruce's number.

"Feely's free! Again!" I exclaim, "It happened a couple minutes ago. I have no idea where they went."

"I'll be right there," Bruce says darkly, and hangs up.

I spend a couple minutes, unable to decide if I should pursue the two escapees or stay with Harley. A low moan comes from her direction.

"Harley, are you okay?" I ask, helping her up.

"Who was that?" she asks, wonderingly.

"Well, if I had one guess, I'd say Jack the security guy."

"No," Harley disagrees, shaking her head emphatically, "No. That guy was happy. He smiled like a clown. That wasn't Jack."

"Maybe there's a side of Jack you hadn't seen yet," I say, "Which way did they go?"

Harley wordlessly points father down the hallway, "And into the stairwell".

I dash down the hallway and break open the stairwell door. The clip board that the escapees had barred the door with cracks neatly in two and goes flying down the stairs. A couple floors above me I can hear rattling footsteps clanking furiously. Taking a deep breath I start to run up the steps.

And I had thought running down stairs was hard. Now I knew better.

By the time I reach the top, I've climbed five flights of steps. Thankfully Jacob Feely's cell was in a new, smaller wing of the asylum. Next to the door leading to the roof is a fire hose station. I smash the glass open and swing the hose rack out. Hefting the hose onto my shoulder I pull it out the door and onto the roof. Feely and the man in the purple suit are strapping themselves to Feely's jet pack device.

"Stop!" I yell across the roof at them, "Or I'll soak the jet pack and you won't be going anywhere."

Feely looks back in my direction. The man in the purple suit turns around and laughs at me, giving me a clear view of his scars. His face is covered in grotesque paint.

"I'm serious. Stop, drop the jet pack, and put you hands up," I shift the weight of the fire hose into the crook of my arm. All I have to do is buy time. Bruce is on his way. He can stop these two.

"Lyn, you're going to let us go," Feely says, holding up his hands but not taking off the backpack straps, "I helped you, now you helped me. That's how this works."

I hesitate slightly, making a show of letting the nozzle drop a couple inches in my grip.

"That's right. Just put it down…." Feely's encouragement is interrupted by his partner.

"Sorry, I'm impatient," Jack says, pulling out a gun.

He takes aim.

I get ready to drop the hose and run.

Suddenly a huge shadow looms behind the two men, appearing larger than life. Jack wheels around, shooting wildly at the expanse of black. He misses.

Feely finally gets the jet pack working correctly. He starts it and the two escapees are lifted off the ground. Batman lunges towards them just as Jack aims his gun for a second shot.

"No!" I yell, wrapping one arm around the hose and turning the nozzle on. The force of the water nearly knocks me over, but I ground my feet, hang on for dear life, and point the nozzle towards Jack. The gun never goes off. Instead, the full force of the water hits Jack in the chest, sending the jet pack veering off course. Cursing myself for not aiming for the pack first, I swing the stream of water wide to try to position it correctly, but by then it was too late. Feely and Jack were too far and too high for me to reach. I shut the fire hose off, letting it fall heavily to the ground.

Batman runs to the edge and launches himself off the roof. Minutes later I hear the Tumbler peel away from the Asylum. But there's no way he'll be able to catch them now.

"Frizz!" Harley screams my name from the stairwell.

I turn around, only to be hit by Harley as she hurls herself at me, wrapping me in a bear hug.

"I thought you had died!" she exclaims.

I teeter backwards, glancing at the five story drop she nearly pushed us over, "Not yet," I say, extricating myself from her embrace.

"What happened? The fire alarm went off and I had to hurry to turn it off before all the cells started opening."

"I tried to stop Jacob Feely and Jack escaping by using the fire hose. It wasn't one of my best ideas," I say, gesturing to the hose stretched across the roof.

"Oh, well, I'm sure we won't have to worry too much Jacobeely can never stay away for a very long time. He misses this place."

"I'm sure he does," I ignore her ramblings and start to drag the hose back to the stairwell. I unceremoniously drop it in a huge heap, hoping the firemen will be able to deal with it.

"Do you really think that man in the blue suit was Jack?" Harley asks, following me back down the stairs.

"It wasn't blue, it was purple. And yes, I know it was Jack. I got a pretty good look at him when he tried to shoot me."

"He tried to shoot you?" Harley's eyes widen, "How exciting!"

"Exciting? If it weren't for Batman, I'd be dead!"

"Yes, but you're not," Harley says, laughing, "Batman was there?"

"He's going after the criminals as we speak."

"Criminals? Beely and Jack aren't criminals," Harley's face takes on a very confused look.

"Of course they aren't," I say a trifle sarcastically, "Batman is just going to go out, bonk 'em on the heads a couple times, and bring 'em back here to good old Arkham Asylum."

"Hopefully soon," Harley says, "It's unsafe outside of the Asylum."

For the first time in our conversation, I find myself unable to disagree with Harley. As strange as her logic is, there is an ugly truth to it. While criminals such as Jacob Feely and Jack are loose in Gotham City, Arkham Asylum is probably the one place guaranteed not to be hit by any madness they cause.

"Visit again!" Harley calls out her cheerful goodbye as I leave the asylum, passing a group of fire fighters on their way in.

I'm never visiting Arkham Asylum ever again.

Hours later, I shift nervously in my seat, fiddling with forks, knives, and water goblets. My napkin has been crumpled and un-crumpled countless times. My phone has been checked twice every half hour. And my date has officially stood me up. The Gotham Hotel's wait staff are unusually polite to me. Perhaps they were expecting this. The dreaded but inevitable public break up of Bruce Wayne and Lynnet Pearl. Never mind that my would be boyfriend is currently out trying to catch two of Gotham's most dangerous criminals. All that matters is that he's not here.

And the fact that no one actually knows Bruce Wayne apprehends criminals as a hobby.

"Would you like to order?" the waiter asks for the fifth time this evening.

"No, I'll wait," I say, desperately trying not to start laughing at the absurdity of the situation.

"You stood me up!" I accuse, storming into the bat-bunker at the shameful hour of 10:00.

"You waited until 10:00?" is Bruce's only response.

"Yeah, well, it kind of turned into a game to see how many times they would ask me if I was ready to order yet," I throw myself into a chair, "I play the unwanted-girlfriend-in-denial very well. There might have even been tears. Nothing unseemly…just lots of sniffles."

"Will we make up after this, or do you think it's over?" Bruce asks nonchalantly without looking up from his computer.

"Oh, I think I'll be able to forgive you if you escort me to the Wayne Company picnic tomorrow. All years previous, I've been taking Eleanor. And Mary never lets me forget it."

"I think that can be arranged," Bruce says, "How many times did they ask you to order?"

"By the twenty second time they gave up and I just sat there drawing."

Bruce laughs.

The printer on the desk begins to whir and spits out a fresh stack of pages. He drops them on my lap.

"What are these?"

"The records of every bank this guy has robbed in the past two weeks."

"So it's been…two weeks then?"

"Almost two weeks exactly. The fear toxin may have had more of an effect than we realize."

"Hmm…well, maybe she's not as crazy as she appears," I muse.

"Who?"

"Harley."

"Harley?"

"Short for Harleen, apparently. Anyway, she says Arkham's security guy, Jack, had a conversation with her two weeks ago. Turns out he feels unsatisfied with his current job, so instead of setting up security systems he's now dismantling them. He also broke Jacob Feely out of the asylum today."

"Jack…interesting, The few newspapers truthfully reporting on his robberies have dubbed him 'The Joker'," Bruce tosses me a bloodstained card, "If all he wants is the money, why break Feely out of Arkham? From the robberies detailed in that packet, its clear Jack doesn't need any help."

"I don't think 'The Joker' cares about the money," I say, holding up the card, "Something else is making him tick. I suppose you want me to figure out what."

"And in the process, determine where he'll strike next."

"I'll go over them tomorrow," I get up to leave, "But after the picnic. You're not going to stand me up for that too are you?" I make the best puppy-dog eyes I can. Bruce takes one look at my face and chuckles.

"I promise I will pick you up at 10:30 tomorrow morning."

"And Eleanor…"

"And Eleanor," Bruce stands up from his computer and walks over to an empty corner of the bat-bunker, "come here," he gestures for me to follow him.

"Why is this section of the room padded?" I ask, tapping my foot on the slightly squishy surface.

"Because it doesn't hurt as much as falling on concrete," Bruce rolls out a life size, man shaped punching bag.

"You asked me to show you how to fight. Consider this your first lesson," Bruce says, "Meet punch bag Bob."

"Hi punch bag Bob," I say, patting the dummy on the shoulder.

"The very first thing to learn is how to make a fist," Bruce says, taking my hand. My fingers automatically curl into a fist with my thumb resting on the side. "Always remember to never curl your fingers around your thumb and keep it on the underside of the fist." he moves my hand into the correct position.

"When you punch, the goal is to hit with the three main knuckles," Bruce demonstrates by punching Bob in the gut.

I start to hurl a sloppy punch towards Bob, but Bruce catches it.

"A punch thrown wide from the shoulder is weak," he says, "You need to aim for a straight line directly to the target. And retracting the other arm adds force."

He stands directly in front of me, "Put your arm out and hold the opposite hand below your shoulder."

I comply.

"Aim for the center of the chest rather than the edge of the shoulder," he repositions my hand, "And the left arm should be tight against your body with a straight line going down from your shoulder to your fist."

He steps back in front of me, inches away from my outstretched fist.

"Now punch without hitting me."

I practice a couple punches.

"Good," Bruce says.

"Isn't this technique a little too…exact for street fighting?" I ask, puzzled.

"You need to learn the technique before you can begin successfully fighting. You start by learning the basic moves, then putting the moves together in a long formation, and then learning how to apply then in actual combat."

I drop my hands, "How many styles of fighting do you know?"

"Plenty," he says, smiling, "Now, as for your stance…" he shoves my shoulder, making me lose my balance, "…it needs a little work."

I laugh and playfully push his shoulder with no effect.

"Feet shoulder width apart and bend your knees," he says, "Now practice your punches."

After a couple of air punches he shuffles forward a half inch, "Try actually hitting me."

"Hit you?"

"Trust me, it won't hurt," he grins.

I punch as hard as I can and probably ended up hurting my hand more than I hurt him.

"If someone punches you, tighten your stomach muscles and release a short breath," Bruce advises. He leads me over to Bob, "Now add the breath as you punch. And try yelling after every fifth punch."

"Okay," I say, laughing a little. By the fifth punch I'm getting pretty good at the breathing and the proper force, but my yell consists of a half squeak half snort. Bruce laughs. He stands next to me and mirrors my punches. On the tenth punch he lets out a yell so loud I nearly jump. But by the fifteenth punch, I'm prepared.

I scream bloody murder, just to get him back.

"The yell shouldn't be so nasal. Instead, have it come from your gut. If you continue to yell like that your throat will go sore after a couple punches."

The next yell is a huge improvement.

"Miss Lyn, Master Bruce, are you okay?" Alfred interrupts our training session, having just entered the bat-bunker.

"I'm doing better than Bob here," I say, putting extra force into my next punch to prove my point.

Alfred raises his eyebrows and continues on his way, leaving us to our punching.


	21. Week 3:Thursday complete

Holy inconsistencies, Batman! Sorry about this chapter before….I rewrote it after rereading my entire story that apparently I forgot (how embarrassing) and now I think I've got my notes back on track. Please pretend the previous incarnation of this never happened! Also pretend it didn't take me a year to do this. Thank you!

20: Thursday

Once a year, every year, Wayne Enterprises holds the biggest summer event in all of Gotham - the Wayne Company Picnic. Of course, the picnic is never actually in Gotham. Instead, the board executives rent a gigantic field, bigger than at least three football fields, as well as five gigantic tents, one gigantic stage equipped with fancy lights, and plenty of gigantic inflatable bouncy castles for the kids. All of this was set up thirty miles outside of Gotham, under the shadow of a mountain, letting the Gothamites escape to a sun-filled, peaceful valley. For a brief 24 hours, everyone forgets the darker side of Gotham city.

However, the darker side of Wayne Employees apparently cannot be suppressed and manifests itself in the form of one of the worst evils that frequently appears at picnics - the dreaded dunk tank. In the week before the picnic everyone at the company gets a chance to vote for the top fifteen people they would like to see sitting four feet above a pool of freezing cold water. The person with the most votes gets the first hour; the person with the second most votes gets the second hour…and so on. Thanks to my newfound popularity as the owner's girlfriend, I received the honor of being first. Apparently I am no longer an invisible and unknown archivist.

Frankly, I'd rather sort through a mile high stack of files than win a dunk tank opportunity in a popularity contest.

Unfortunately I was not given a choice, and foolishly did not bribe the correct people to get my name taken off the list like certain vain billionaires who will not be named, so minutes after arriving at the picnic I find myself perched above the tank, anxiously awaiting the inevitable. Thankfully, managers, secretaries, and other business personal turn out to have very bad aims.

After fifty eight minutes of cruel anticipation, during which I coerced Eleanor to stand beside the tank and set the timer for an hour, I begin to relax. With only two more minutes to go, who could possibly manage to hit the center of the target with enough force to send me flying into the water?

Seconds later, the answer to my question casually saunters up to the dunk tank wearing his usual Armani suit, and looking slightly out of place among the casual picnic goers. My hope drains quickly as I realize even a fancy suit won't hinder Batboy's strength or precision. No question about it, I'm going to be dunked.

A mischievous grin I've never seen before slides across Bruce's face as he expertly picks up a softball and tosses it lightly into the air. I send him a glare that definitely says, 'hit that target and you will wish you were wearing your Kevlar armor by the time I'm done with you'.

Bruce Wayne never learned to take a hint.

He lazily hurtles the ball towards the target, and I have a split second to squeeze my eyes shut, clamp one hand over my nose, and mentally prepare myself for the ice water, before I hear a loud "slap". I release my death grip on my nose, and peek out at the target with one eye.

He missed!

I open both eyes and stare at the growing crowd around the dunk tank, all of whom find this situation positively hilarious. Bruce is laughing as well and asks the guy running the tank for another try. He lets loose another softball and misses yet again. I laugh disbelievingly.

"Bruce, clearly you just don't have the guts to dunk your girlfriend," a voice drawls from the sidelines. Floyd Lawton casually plucks the softball from Bruce's hand and takes a few steps back. With an arrogant grin he makes an impossible throw with an aim so precise, one would think it had come from a professional baseball player. The tank lets out a large clank as the mechanisms send me tumbling into the water.

For a minute I'm completely submerged, my hair entangling across my face, my loose shirt and shorts billowing up. The next thing I know the shock of the sheer cold is forcing me to the surface. I shoot up, taking half the water out with me. Now standing comfortably in the waist-deep pool, I can hear the laughter as I pull my bedraggled hair out of my face. Wiping water out of my eyes, and my new contacts, I come face to face with an equally soaked Bruce Wayne.

"I guess I learned my lesson about standing too close to the tank," Bruce jokes to the entertained crowd, lifting his arms to try to shake water out of his fancy suit. I flop out of the tank and snatch two towels from the side, throwing one at Bruce. Bruce shrugs off the ruined suit jacket and tosses it at Floyd, "It's your turn now."

Laughing, Floyd dodges Bruce's soaked jacket, effortlessly climbs up to the dunk tank's seat, and swings himself onto it.

"I'll do the honors," Mary announces with a grin, having followed Floyd over. She ignores the softball Bruce offers and goes straight up to the target, throwing her entire weight against it. Floyd's cry of "that's cheating" gets drowned out by the water.

"I think I've had enough of the dunk tank for one day," I proclaim, "I'm going to change." I snatch up my bag and stomp off, a comical squelching sound coming from my shoes.

"I had better do the same," Bruce says, smiling his fake smile and waving at the crowd. He jogs up to me, an arm going around my waist possessively. I guess even fake boyfriends feel entitled to this public display of affection. Once we are out of range of the crowd however, Bruce's arm disappears. When we reach the public showers near the parking lot he leans in close again.

"I'm going to use the rest of the day to search for Feely," Bruce says quietly. He smoothes a wet curl of hair plastered to my forehead behind my ear. "Can you find another way home? I could always send Alfred out to get you, but you know how much he enjoys waiting in the bunker."

"Of course," I say, trying not to let the disappointment sound in my voice. I had hoped for a single day without having to worry about disappearing inmates, but I suppose that was just wishful thinking with Batman as my boyfriend.

Bruce plants a kiss on my forehead before he leaves, probably for the benefit of the spectators at a picnic table nearby. I smile weakly and wave at the table before going into the showers to change.

Comfortable and dry once again, I wander around outside, eventually finding Eleanor at a shady table with what looks like an entire afghan including eight different color strands. One person I didn't expect to see, Teresa Williams sits across from her.

"I see you brought your traveling project," I comment to Eleanor as I sit down next to her, carefully avoiding the tangled web of yarn.

"It's for a charity auction at church," Eleanor responds, "I need to finish it by next Sunday. And to do that, I need to learn to knit in my sleep. I think I almost have the process worked out."

I nod encouragingly.

"Voting for Harvey Dent?" Teresa interrupts, pushing a flyer across the table towards me, "Surely you support him."

"I don't know," I say truthfully, "I'm partial to Rachel Dawes myself."

"Rachel Dawes' policies are similar to her predecessor's. Carl Finch didn't crack down on the mob hard enough and she will undoubtedly follow his lead."

"Rachel Dawes is her own person," I reply, "I know quite a few trustworthy people who have complete faith in her abilities to clean up Gotham."

"Yet Harvey remains the only politician in Gotham willing to stand up to corrupt cops and officials."

"Harvey Dent accused a lot of people. Some of the accusations went unfounded. What about Anna Ramirez? Her reputation suffered from Dent's investigations and publicity. Yet, there was no publicity when she kept her job and was cleared of all charges."

"If she were entirely innocent, Harvey would never have looked into it."

"So, you're following him with complete blind faith?" I ask skeptically.

"No, I'm trying to explain why what Harvey is doing will benefit Gotham."

"Yet you just said you take Dent's word over the judgment of the people who made the final decisions on Ramirez's case."

"Because I believe in Harvey Dent! And that's what Gotham needs!" Teresa says, eyes shining.

"I thought that Ron Marshall, the developer behind the displacement of an entire city block of people, supported Harvey Dent?"

"He only says that because he thinks it will gain more support for his demolition plans. In reality, as soon as he is in office, Harvey has absolutely promised me that he will look into Marshall's shadier activities. Of course, by then it will be too late to do anything about the new development. So really it's a last chance option, but it's more assurance than I have with anything I've been working on. The protests and news stories don't seem to be inciting any kind of change," her eyes darken for a moment before flickering back into enthusiasm, "We might end up relying on Harvey Dent after all."

"I'm voting Dent," Eleanor barks from behind her afghan.

"Great!" Teresa says, pinning an 'I Believe in Harvey Dent' badge to the portion of afghan nearest her.

"Speaking of support," Teresa says, turning back to me, "I understand you are still interested in being involved in the protest against Ron Marshall. Since you're so close to Bruce Wayne, could you…" she trails off, looking hopeful.

"Get him to financially support your cause?"

"Exactly!"

A large snort escapes from behind the afghan.

"Since when has the prince of Gotham done any charity work?" Eleanor asks.

"Eleanor doesn't approve of my boyfriend," I explain.

"You could do better," Eleanor says.

"Well, whether he has a history of charity work or not," Teresa interjects, "I was hoping you, Lyn, could convince him that he should start with the area around Crime Alley. Or, perhaps you could introduce me to him and I can give my pitch?"

"He left a while ago," I reply, "Probably some other pressing business concern. But I'll try to talk to him about it."

Her face immediately falls.

"If Bruce Wayne's gone, there's no reason for me to stay anymore. That was my main reason for coming today. I'll admit I had hoped to use your connection to him to get some funding. We are running out of money. The more Marshall throws at his advertising, the more we have to fight back."

"You're leaving then?" I ask, jumping at the opportunity.

"Yeah, I drove my heap of junk car out here, and hopefully it'll be able to carry me back to Gotham."

"Do you mind giving me a ride back?" I ask.

"A ride back? Doesn't Bruce Wayne have a limo or something waiting?"

"Not really. I told him not to worry about it," I say defensively.

Another disgruntled sound from the afghan.

"Okay," Teresa says, not sounding convinced, "Let's go then."

Eleanor makes a face at me as I get up from the table.

"Do you need a ride?" I ask her.

"Of course not," Eleanor replies defensively, "I was thinking of getting that lovely, amiable man over by the tree to take me home." Taking a brief break from knitting, Eleanor smiles and waggles her fingers at the man, who I realize is Mr. Fredericks. Mr. Fredericks impulsively glances behind him, realizes he's the one being waggled at, and smiles back looking pleasantly surprised.

"So where do you live?" Teresa asks on the way to the parking lot.

"Currently, I'm staying at a friend's. But really I want to buy a new apartment soon. I haven't found anything worthwhile yet."

"Is that how you came across Ron Marshall's development plans?"

"It was. Before, well, the obvious dangers arose, I lived in the narrows. I hated having to leave my family home, and my friends. But the cost of living in such an area got so great I couldn't pretend it didn't exist anymore."

"Many other people in Gotham have much the same story. Which explains why I'm against Ron Marshall's plan and am supporting Harvey Dent. Gotham needs change. And the first step to change is deciding what ideals we want to reach. Without ideals, we'll never have anything to strive for. Harvey can give us those goals."

"I thought you were done campaigning for the day?" I tease.

She laughs, "Sorry, I guess it comes naturally for me. Or perhaps it's a bad habit I can't break."

"Ever thought of campaigning for you? I mean, if you're so good at it, why not put it to good use?"

"I'd never be able to do what Harvey does. I can stir up trouble, inspire some protests, and campaign all I want with some success. That's enough for me. I think I'm having some effect, wither directly or indirectly."

"Either way, it's working. I'm beginning to believe in Harvey Dent," I laugh, "Rachel may be realistic and very good at what she does, but maybe Gotham is truly ready for someone radically different and new: an idealist, similar to Batman. Do you think Batman helped to pull Gotham out of its slump?"

"Honestly, I think Batman is working wonders, even if he is a vigilante."

"I do too."

We come around the public restrooms and lurking next to the drinking fountain is the handsome man from the train on Tuesday, talking. I snatch Teresa's arm and pull her back behind a large van before he sees us.

"What?" Teresa asks.

"Shhh!"

Using a stick to prod the side mirror of the van into place, I study the reflection of the handsome man closely. I don't recognize him from any of the files on Wayne employees, so he must be a guest. The question was: whose? And who do I have to talk to in order to meet him? I was surprised Mary hadn't become attached to him already.

"Who is he?" Teresa asks, creeping closer to watch.

"No idea, but the last time I saw him he disappeared while going into Arkham Asylum," I whisper back.

I push the mirror farther, revealing Floyd Lawton as the second person talking. Immediately I see the family resemblance, and recall the fourth Lawton face on my painting.

"I need money," handsome man says lightly, laughing humorlessly.

"That doesn't answer the question. Why come home for money? You know father and mother wrote you out of the will."

"Edward Lawton," I whisper to Teresa, "The missing Lawton brother."

"And you know this how?"

"I'm painting a portrait for the family."

Edward Lawton looks uncomfortable with his brother's question, "I have other ways of getting money. Granted, the money comes from the same source, just a different method of getting it."

"I don't know what you're doing, but I want no part in it."

"Don't worry, little brother, I'm taking care of everything."

"Please don't be stupid enough to come by the house."

"I might stop by at some point. It all depends."

"Mother would be happy to see you, but you know father…"

"Do they still use the latest maid to exchange messages?"

"They do, and the most recent has only lasted one month."

Handsome man, undoubtedly Edward Lawton, laughs heartily.

"Stop laughing. I'm sick of it Ed. Their bickering is slowly driving me insane."

"Then follow my lead, and escape to a foreign country."

"And come crawling back for money when I discover I'm good for nothing except filling a useless position at my family's company?"

"I'm not useless, just broke," Edward laughs.

"Have you had any jobs since you stole what should have been your inheritance and ran two years ago?"

"I haven't needed any. That's the ingenious part"

"You're lucky father is so concerned about keeping up appearances or you would be in jail now."

"Father's foolish pride is exactly why my plan works. Who are you and what have you done with my little brother? You used to worship the ground I walked on Floyd."

"We were kids then, Ed."

For a fleeting second Floyd's eyes flicker towards the van's side mirror, and I catch my breath thinking he has made eye contact with me. But instead Floyd says bitterly, "You destroyed everything," and walks away adding, "You're not getting any money from me."

Teresa and I scramble away from the van, with her leading the way to her beat up, old bug. We duck into the front seats. She starts laughing with nerves, "That was a little exciting. Do you think he's really done something illegal? Something he wouldn't want us listening in on?"

"I have no idea," I say, my heart racing, "But something about that family is certainly not right."

"It seems all the rich families in Gotham have something to hide: the Marshalls, now the Lawtons. I hope you've had Bruce Wayne's background thoroughly checked out. You never know what skeletons could be lying in the richest man in Gotham's closet," Teresa jokes, starting the car and pulling out of the parking lot.

I laugh half-heartedly. In an effort to calm my nerves I pull out my sketchbook.

"Do you mind if I draw you while you drive?" I ask.

Teresa gets the hint and immediately changes the subject.

"Sure. It's awesome that you're an artist. I've always loved going to museums. I was at the Gotham Art Museum when Feely robbed the place," She says.

"I was too. And I'm only somewhat of an artist. Currently, my portrait commission business is small, but growing."

"Maybe after the Dent campaign and the Marshall protests are done, and I have more free time, I'll have to commission one, hang it up in my humble apartment, and feel important."

"Indeed, everyone should have a five foot tall life-size portrait of themselves hanging in their living rooms."

"I could even be holding a protest sign. It would embody my personality."

"I doubt if anyone, even one such as you with so much practice, could hold a protest sign for that long."

"Does it take you a while to do portraits?"

"Hours. Multiple sessions, even."

"Who are you painting now?"

"Nancy Earle and Genevieve Lawton are my two customers."

"If there was ever someone who embodied the perfect socialite, it'd be Floyd Lawton," Teresa comments, chuckling, "Even despite that little scene back there."

"Did you meet him at the picnic?"

"Yes, and in response to my question about the Marshall Company's developments, he gave me an entire litany of charities and causes he's donated to. He also gave me the number of his social secretary to arrange a meeting and decide how much money he could afford to donate. So, while my respect of him dwindles at the prospect of dealing with a foppish pretty boy, I have to admit he has a charitable side."

"I think you pretty much summed up all my observations of the man," I confirm, "He seemed fairly interested in Mary, though. She's a receptionist at Wayne Enterprises."

"You wouldn't think a member of the Lawton family would look twice at a receptionist."

"Exactly."

"Then again, a member of the Wayne family wouldn't be expected to look twice at an archivist."

"True."

"What's the story behind that one?"

"A long one. Truthfully, I don't think it will last," I confide.

"Call the tabloids, another of Bruce Wayne's relationships breaking off quickly!" Teresa laughs, "That will be a surprise."

"Yeah," I say, feeling a slight ache.

Teresa notices my lack of enjoyment in her joke, "My god, you really like him, don't you? I thought for sure that a smart woman like you would never date a guy of his reputation seriously. But your relationship is serious for you, isn't it?"

I sigh, "It doesn't matter what it is for me. He treats it like a joke."

"Then what are you doing with him anyway?"

"I keep hoping this other side of him will show up to stay instead of disappearing whenever I think I've finally caught it," I explain wistfully.

A pause settles over our conversation as we consider this.

"Ugh…that might be the most pathetic thing I've ever admitted to," I groan, nearly poking my eye with my pencil as I bury my head behind my sketchbook in shame.

"As pathetic as falling for the guy you're campaigning for?" Teresa laughs.

"Really? Harvey Dent?"

"Sadly, yes. His ideals are very attractive. Or perhaps he's just very attractive. Maybe that's our problem: we're too shallow, you and I. We fall for these attractive guys and then find them unattainable. Or, in your case, un-keep-able."

"That must be it," I agree, smiling, "Or maybe it's the money. A billionaire is quite a catch."  
"Nah, can't be the money for me. Harvey's money goes directly to his campaign."

"Then let's face it, you would have fallen for him even if he looked like a Gotham sewer rat."

She smiles and nods, "It must be the ideals!"

"And yet for me the only positives remain the never ending cash and good looks!"

"It's not like I have any chance with Harvey," Teresa adds.

"I wouldn't know…" I reply.

"He's been…very gracious and friendly with Rachel Dawes, the competition. I can't help but wonder if he's taking the adage 'keep your friends close but your enemies closer' literally, or if he has an ulterior motive."

"Honestly…I think it must be more complicated than that," I admit, thinking of Bruce.

Teresa sighs, "I know. It was a silly daydream, anyway. He's too old for me. And I'm an unglamorous campaign worker."

"I'm sure he appreciates how ardent your support is."

"Oh, very ardent," Teresa says sarcastically, laughing.

"What are you planning to do after the election is over and Ron Marshall is kicked out of Park Row?"

"I haven't decided yet. I trust I'll find something new to occupy my time," she says, confidently, "I could always go back to school."

"Back to school?"

"Yeah, I went to a research university as far away from Gotham as I could get. But once there I got hugely involved in extracurricular activities and politics. The result was plenty of life experience and the worst grades imaginable. So, I decided to set my education aside temporarily."

"A big decision. I know, I made the same one. Only for me, it was partially already decided."

"Oh?"

Her interest surprises me. I awkwardly wish I had never brought the subject up, "Another long story," I brush it off.

"I see," Teresa says, nodding, "And where would you like to be dropped off? We're just five minutes out of Gotham."

"An apartment in Robbinsville. And thanks again, for giving me a ride. It's hard not having a car in Gotham."

"It's hard having a car in Gotham," Teresa laughs, "Sometimes I wonder if it's worth it. But then I get opportunities to escape from the city for a day, and I remember what it means to have a car."

"Maybe after getting an apartment, a car will be next on my list of necessities," I smile.

"I highly recommend a good, reliable, old car like Betsy here," Teresa pats her car fondly. The car rattles and clanks back at her.

"Sounds ideal," I say.

When we pull up in front of Chad's apartment complex, I wave goodbye to Teresa and watch her car drive away. Then, I promptly head over to the nearest train station. I'm at the bat-bunker within minutes, sending a quick message to Bruce to let him know I'm coming.

Money and good looks indeed. If only people knew the truth.

"You're back early," Bruce says, greeting me in front of the container box. He's dressed in the familiar costume of orange hood and jeans jacket.

"The picnic lost all appeal after you left. I met Floyd Lawton's brother, though. How well do you know Floyd?" I ask.

"Well enough. I trust Floyd," Bruce assures me.

"From what I overheard, it sounds as if Edward Lawton did something illegal to get his hands on his parents' money."

Bruce shakes his head, "No. Floyd only said the best things about his brother."

"Yes, apparently Floyd idolized Edward when they were younger. Maybe things have changed…"

"Family affairs are the Lawton's business. I'm certainly not going to interfere."

"I'm not asking you to. I'm just saying Floyd might not be as perfect as everyone says he is."

"We should go," Bruce says, changing the subject rather abruptly, "I'm hoping to find Bob at the old subway station near the Bowery."

"Where the meeting with the scarecrow was held?" I ask, following along.

"Correct."

I'll just have to investigate the Lawtons on my own.

Bruce and I catch the train across town to Burnley, and from there to Bowery. We get off at a familiar stop and at the base of the train station Bob hovers over a burning trash pile, warming his hands despite the obvious warmth of the summer day.

"Hi Bob," I say, happily.

"Be taking you to the scarecrow's meeting," Bob says, "The scarecrow intends to reclaim territory."

"What territory?" Bruce asks.

"Crime Alley," Bob answers simply, "Follow." He leads us down to the lower level of Gotham, and through the maze of abandoned underground subway systems. The tunnel ends halfway up the wall of a large cavern, echoing with angry voices. Bob refuses to get any closer to the opening, gesturing for us to look down and then disappearing back the way we came. Bruce and I creep closer and crouch low on the ledge. Far below, in the center of the cavern stands a figure with a sack hood surrounded by hissing followers. The amplified voices carry as far as the ledge Bruce and I are hidden on.

"These privileged builders want to steal our homes we have lived in for years!" the Scarecrow yells, waving his hand emphatically. I notice a trail of smoke follows the path of his hand, suggesting that the people's fear and paranoia were not caused entirely by mob mentality. Jonathan Crane was intentionally calling attention to the homeless' grievances against Ron Marshall while using his fear toxin.

"We must draw attention to ourselves," Crane continues, "People need to take us seriously. How will we do that?"

"Breaking and burning!" someone calls out from the crowd.

A cheer rises up from the spectators, encouraged by the scarecrow's antics on stage.

"And who is trying to stop us? The establishment!" Scarecrow yells.

"Breaking and burning!" cheers the crowd. The panic emitting from the Scarecrow's hands overwhelms the crowd, causing uproar. They begin smashing walls and floors with clubs, stopping just short of hitting each other.

The Scarecrow waves his hand across the crowd one last time, reveling in the chaos. "And who will suffer for these crimes?" He asks, his voice nearly drowned out by the crowd, "The new DA elected tomorrow, Ron Marshall's supporter, and everyone else who stands in our way!"

Willing to destroy anything or anyone after being subjected to so much poison, the homeless people around Crane pay no heed to his last comment. But next to me, Bruce tenses.

"I've seen enough," he growls and slips back into the darkness of the tunnel.

Back at the bat-bunker I watch Bruce wearily shrug off his jacket and hoodie. He tosses it in the bin, sinks into a computer chair, and swiftly pulls up a calendar on screen.

"You know, with all your wealth, you would think you could afford a different disguise once in a while," I comment on the fraying orange jacket, falling into one of the armchairs myself.

"Jonathan Crane's threat was real," Bruce says, darkly.

"I found his threat lacking. No matter who is elected tomorrow, can he honestly get close enough to the DA to kill her…or him?"

"I'm not taking that chance."

The printer hums with activity. Bruce stands up, rips the still warm paper out of the machine and presents it to me.

"Rachel's schedule," He explains.

"How did you…?"

"I need you to switch your main focus for me. Forget Marshall, target Rachel."

"You realize this is borderline stalker-ish," I say, laughing and setting the paper aside without studying it, "You can't be serious Bruce."

"I need to protect her," Bruce leans over me and looks directly into my eyes with an intensity I've never seen before.

I'm stunned into a brief silence.

"Here is a camera," Bruce hands me a pen and a remote type device.

"Bruce, really?"

"You'll be on a paid vacation from work. The stress of handling two jobs takes some time to adjust to."

"Bruce, stop for a second and listen."

"Alfred has you on speed dial. If you have any trouble, contact him."

"So what, I'm supposed to trail Rachel Dawes, executive assistant DA, for a full day. And that won't look suspicious to her at all."

"For as long as it takes. And you're good at going unnoticed."

"Yeah, thanks," I let out a breath of disbelief, "Just good, old, invisible Lyn reporting for duty. I was fine with talking to Marshall, trying to find out his dirty secrets, but I'm not spying on Rachel."

"Why?"

"You know Rachel. And stalking her is personal, only for your benefit. That's not what batman is about."

"Because you know everything batman is about?"

"That's not what I meant. Bruce, please. Do not make me do this."

"I need you to do this for me."

"Bruce," my wall begins to wear down. A part of me caves in to his stubborn request. If he believes I'll be of some help in keeping Rachel safe, who am I to refuse? Hadn't I promised to help batman in whatever way I could? "What will you do while I'm busy stalking?"

"As my duty to Gotham, I have to make catching Feely top priority. But Jonathan Crane has threatened, and hurt, Rachel before. He wouldn't hesitate to do so again."

"Okay then," I reluctantly take the pen camera, "One time, and then I'm back on medical duty."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet. Wait until I've been thrown in jail with a restraining order against me." I turn away from him and shift through the costume bin, wondering how I should re-create my image for such an assignment.

"Come up with a clever excuse," Bruce suggests, "Maybe you could be a supporter in her campaign."

"After telling Teresa I might support Dent?" I ask, laughing.

Bruce doesn't laugh.

"I'll go get ready for my big day tomorrow, then," I sigh, starting towards the exit.

"Wait," Bruce says, "I'm not planning on going out again tonight. You should get some practice time in." He pats the punching bag on the shoulder.

"I don't know. I have this dinner with Sam and Lawrence every Thursday night…"

"In the narrows? You shouldn't go there alone. I'll come with you." Bruce tosses a motorcycle helmet at me. He opens up a panel in the wall and pulls out his motorcycle gear. And then a second leather jacket.

"You didn't…" I start to say.

Bruce smiles and holds the new leather jacket out for me to try on, "I had Alfred guess your size."

I slip my arms into the smooth leather jacket. I've never worn leather in my life. The smell brings me back to the time when I was ten years old and awed by my grandfather, an avid motorcycle rider. I zip the jacket up and strike a pose, hands on hips, grinning like a fool.

"How do I look?"

"Ready to ride," Bruce says, walking out the motorcycle.

"The new jacket, the motorcycle lesson, and the offer to join me at Sam's are all bribes, aren't they?"

"Maybe," Bruce grins slightly.

I laugh, "Okay, fine. Let's go."

To finally be the one in control of the motorcycle is a heady experience. After the numerous sessions walking the motorcycle in the bunker, and a few rides around the shipyard, being able to ride through the city is thrilling. And I admit the calming touch of Bruce's hands on my hips adds to my enjoyment. Much to Bruce's amusement I follow the rules of the road and we reach my old home in three times the amount of time it would have taken him to ride there. Arriving in one piece was my top priority. As well as maximizing the time spent in such close proximity to Bruce.

I park the motorcycle behind the chain link fence around my father's old house and secure the lock. Letting myself into the house, I drag Bruce up to the attic before going into Lawrence's apartment. It's hard to discern his expression behind the sunglasses and baseball cap, but I can feel his puzzlement. In the attic, I hunt through a large costume trunk that my mother used to keep for me to play dress up with as a kid.

"Here!" I announce, pulling out the largest pair of glasses I've ever scene, "My dad had perfect vision. He only wore these when he wanted to impress people with his intelligence, so the lenses are not prescription."

Bruce tries them on, grinning.

"And this," I add, yanking out a mop of black hair, "is the wig my mother wore back in the 60's when she decided to go as a Beatle for Halloween."

"Which one?" Bruce asks skeptically.

"Paul McCartney."

"Okay," he takes the cap off, affixes the wig to his head, and replaces the cap.

"You look like a new person…from the hippy era," I say, arranging the hair so it looks more natural.

"As long as I'm not recognizable."

"Definitely not. Unless you suddenly get an urge to go around impersonating the Beatles as Bruce Wayne."

"Not likely."

Together "Larry" and I go downstairs to eat with Lawrence's family.

"How bad are the narrows getting lately?" Bruce asks after we finish eating and Joan and I are cleaning up.

Sam looks up from packaging up his famous lasagna into motorcycle-appropriate sized Tupperware containers.

"Very bad," Sam says, "If I could, I would move out tomorrow."

"Aren't the police doing anything?" Bruce questions, concern showing on his face.

"They try but the entire island is overrun by escaped Arkham inmates. Eventually they will round up everyone. It just takes time."

"I certainly didn't see any police catching inmates on our way here," I comment angrily, scrubbing a dish extra hard and causing a clatter in the sink.

"Because they aren't trying very hard. The cowards are more scared than any of us," Joan explains as she gathers plates from the tables. She nudges Bruce with a serving bowl, "Larry, go help Lyn dry."

Bruce appears behind me in the kitchen, wearing a slightly bemused expression.

Wiping my soapy hands on my pants I toss a towel at him.

"Dry the dishes and stack them next to the fridge," I whisper, "And try to look like you know what you're doing."

Joan comes back into the kitchen and dumps a new pile of dishes next to me. I wash five glasses and two plates. Bruce dries a single fork. When the drying rack is full, I make Bruce swap places. I finish the drying and Bruce manages to wash the salad bowl. We switch jobs again. Bruce dries a dish. Between the two of us we manage to get the clean up done, but I can't help think that Bruce was almost more a hindrance than a help.

"I voted for Harvey Dent in the hope that he can straighten out the narrows," Sam explains, "He promises to weed out corruption among the police. After that happens, you will see inmates being arrested here in the narrows."

"Let's hope Dent wins then," Bruce says, grinning.

"Speaking of trouble on the streets, you two should get going before the worst of them come out at night," Joan says, glancing out the window.

"Thank you for the dinner," Bruce says graciously, "It was delicious. The best I've had all week."

Sam positively beams.

At the door Bruce and I put on our motorcycle gear and jackets alone.

"Thank you," I tell him.

"For?"

"For coming to dinner with me. And complimenting Sam's cooking. He'll be glowing from that review for a week."

"You're welcome," he says, "In fact, I may come next week as well."

"I knew it!" I exclaim, opening the door.

Bruce raises a questioning eyebrow.

"I've gotten you addicted to Sam's cooking! Don't be ashamed, it happens to the best of us," I console him.

"I concede that Sam's lasagna has a special appeal."

"Well, this should last us for a couple days," I say, holding up the leftovers.

On the way down the front stairs Bruce pauses mid-step.

"What?" I ask, curious.

"Tonight was the first time I dried a dish," he muses.

"And how was the experience?"

"Exhausting."

I laugh.

"How you do it everyday?" he asks, smirking at me.

"You should see the dishes the busboy at Sam's restaurant has to do."

"I will make certain to thank Alfred as soon as I get home."

Bruce plods down the rest of the stairs and swings his leg over the motorcycle.

"I'll drive back since the sun is down," he says.

"I thought you were too tired from drying that dish?" I ask, securing the lasagna package to the motorcycle.

"I think I can manage."

I get on behind him and hold on tight as we speed away from the narrows, back to the bunker.


	22. Week 3:Friday

Thank you all so much for the reviews! I'm excited to be writing fanfiction again! Also, if anyone is looking for an exciting action/romance story with a great female lead, I just finished reading the Leviathan series by Scott Westerfeld and am hooked. Plus there's a flying whale which makes everything that more awesome. Scott's action scenes are amazing and I've been using them as inspiration for my feeble attempts at writing action in my story.

21: Friday

Day number one of Rachel Reconnaissance.

I arrive at the first polling place by 6:30 am, directly across from Wayne Tower. I can't help but glance over wistfully at the nine to five day job I'm missing out on. Instead I'm stuck in a huge crowd of people, listening to Rachel Dawes give a speech. I find it laughably easy to go unnoticed in such a mob. However, anyone wishing to hurt Rachel would also find it easy to get to her. The polls open at 7:00 and although the lines are fairly formidable, they are somewhat lessened compared to last year thanks to the increase of absentee voters. When it's my turn I somewhat guiltily check the box for Harvey Dent. Let him take office and get me off the hook for tracking Rachel Dawes day in and day out. If last night was a taste of how Bruce would react with Rachel in the running for DA, I don't want to know how difficult he could be to deal with if she actually won.

I spend the entire day traveling from rally to rally in different parts of Gotham city, following Rachel's cloud of supporters. But everywhere we go, the sheer size of Harvey Dent's crowds overwhelm us. It's embarrassingly clear who will win this election. I almost feel bad for Rachel, forced to stand in front of her small, but dedicated, group and try to bolster their hopes. Unfortunately, by midday, thousands of workers on lunch break take to the street waving 'I believe in Harvey Dent' signs. The enthusiasm is unprecedented in Gotham's history, and the lines I thought were not bad are suddenly overflowing with an influx of late voters. On her own podium, Rachel's smile gradually grows obviously fixed.

Needless to say the day seems to last forever. And neither the Scarecrow nor the gang of poisoned homeless people make an appearance.

At 7:00 pm the polls close, and I consider leaving Rachel to fend for herself. If the gigantic Harvey Dent campaign army is any indicator, obviously Rachel lost the election. Hopefully, she'll no longer be in danger. I slip to the edge of the crowd and nearly make my escape when a hushed silence falls over everyone, including Rachel Dawes.

Harvey Dent steps up beside her.

"Will you, and your supporters, join me at my election night party while we wait for the votes to be counted?" he asks carefully, smiling the most friendly, beautiful smile I've ever seen.

Rachel's face betrays her shock. She's actually rendered somewhat speechless.

"What do you say?" Dent addresses the crowd, "It's been a tough race, but I believe we all merit a little celebration. Whatever the outcome tonight, as a city we've proven Gotham wants, needs, deserves change."

The crowd cheers and Rachel laughs breathlessly, nodding.

"I couldn't agree more Mr. Dent. Yes, I'll gladly attend the election night party."

More cheers.

As I watch Rachel walk off stage with Dent, my hopes are dashed to the ground. So much for Rachel being out of immediate danger. Nevertheless, thoughts of danger are quickly driven out of my mind as I'm swept up in the tide of joy and exuberance expressed by everyone in the streets. The huge crowd stops traffic as they march towards the Gotham Hotel, where the party will be held. I'm stuck in the middle, reveling in the experience, while storing it away for future use. Never before have I seen so many people united in a cause for mutual good. One could almost forget Gotham's notorious history of crime.

In the hotel I find myself wedged between the stage and an unnecessarily large, potted plant. Obviously, as Rachel's stalker I have to ensnare the best view in the building. Thankfully nothing has happened. And yet a part of me wishes something would happen so that I'm no longer miserably trapped in a crowded room full of people who are happier than I am. The only thing keeping me going is the fake smile plastered to my face. Even that falters occasionally. Every time I look up at the platform I can't help but notice Rachel's smile becoming less and less false. She seems happy despite the fact that two hours after the polls closed it became overwhelmingly obvious that Dent was winning with a landslide majority. I have a sneaking suspicion her new radiance has something to do with the close proximity of her and Dent's heads as they watch the television. If they got any closer someone would be sitting in someone's lap. While I, the invisible presence, am forced to watch the object of my affection's object of affection flirt with the object of her affection. If this love quadrangle got any more complicated we'd all be seeing stars.

"Kind of disgusting, isn't it?" Teresa seems to materialize out of the crowd from nowhere. I had forgotten about Teresa's crush on Dent. I suppose that makes five of us entangled in our little drama.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I fake ignorance. Very poorly.

"I can't figure you out. I thought you were infatuated with Mr. Prince of Gotham," Teresa comments, taking over my position of staring up at the two DA candidates, "Yet here you sit, leaning against a fern, looking so forlorn anyone would think you must be either going after Rachel or Harvey."

We must make such a lovely five pointed star.

"I happen to enjoy ferns very much," I protest, "My position has nothing to do with Dent or Dawes."

"Yes, I think the fern is trying to hug you," Teresa laughs.

I swipe away a leaf encroaching on my right ear. The fern responds by poking my opposite ear with a different leaf.

"Anyway, all that doesn't matter now," Teresa continues, "What really matters is that Gotham won for once! And tomorrow I'll be given Dent's full support for my campaign against Marshall!"

"That's wonderful!" I agree, "But technically he hasn't won yet."

Teresa raises an eyebrow.

Suddenly the room erupts into a cacophony of cheers.

Someone clears their throat on the microphone, tapping lightly, "Excuse me everyone. If you could quiet down for a minute," Harvey steps up to give a speech, "In case you looked away from the TV in the last couple minutes, it's my pleasure to introduce myself as…" he pauses for effect, "Your new District Attorney!"

Rachel stands next to him, applauding and glowing with pride.

"What is your first act as DA?" someone yells, laughing.

"Well, I've thought about this moment a lot," Harvey Dent clears his throat and pulls out a lucky coin, "I even consulted my father's lucky coin."

He pauses for effect.

"And…well…" Dent struggles with some inner conflict.

Then he sweeps Rachel into a kiss.

The crowd at first reacts with stunned silence, then a scattering of laughter, and then applause.

"You lose very gracefully," Dent teases quietly, under the din of the applause. Only those nearest can hear. Specifically, me and Teresa.

"I'll have better luck next time," Rachel retorts, grinning ear to ear.

Raising his voice and addressing the crowd Dent continues, "I hope, after seeing how even two candidates, opposed in such a heated election, can cooperate so well…" he pauses to allow for the crowd's laughter, "That you all will accept Rachel Dawes as my assistant DA and that together, all of us can make the future of Gotham brighter. I believe in Gotham City!"

The applause is deafening. Rachel and Dent use the distraction to escape to a more private area backstage.

I steal a glance at Teresa. Her face is frozen mid grin.

Seeing me watching her, Teresa laughs, "That was certainly unexpected."

"Yeah, no kidding," I say, trying not to look concerned.

A bright smile spreads across her face; happier than I have ever seen her before.

"Are you all right?" I ask.

"I'm fine. More than fine," she insists, "I'm just so happy…I…"

She takes my arm, shaking with energy, "I feel so light. Free. Let's go out in the streets and celebrate! I can hear them now."

"Now?" I glance back at the stage. Would Rachel be safe? Scarecrow hadn't followed up on his threat so far.

"Yes now!" She pulls me through the crowds to the door.

The streets are magical. There is a feeling in the air that hasn't been there since when Batman first appeared and criminals starting fearing the flood light in the sky.

A feeling which is broken by the insistent ringing of my cell phone.

"Hello?" I yell into the phone, "You'll have to speak louder I'm in the middle of the street. Literally."

"Lynnet, what are you doing in the middle of the street when you should be at my house painting?" Genevieve Lawton shrills back, "Have you gone insane, child?"

I wince at the high pitched tone, "No, of course, I'm sorry. I forgot about the portrait session due to all this commotion over the elections and everything."

"Yes, yes, congratulations to Harvey Dent and the new mayor. Now come over! Do I need to send a car?"

"At the moment, I don't think a car will do you much good," I say, eyeing the honking traffic trapped within a sea of people and stifling my laughter.

"I expect to see you within the hour."

"Genevieve, I…" a click and dial tone, and I've lost her.

My phone rings again. I pick it up and recognize Genevieve's number.

"I'm sorry, I need to go," I tell Teresa, "A temperamental client insists."

"How unpatriotic. Has she no pride in her city?" Teresa asks indignantly.

"Honestly? Probably not," I say, running off in the direction of the train station, "See you later."

"There's a protest tomorrow on Park Row," Teresa yells, "You should join us!"

"I will!" I call back before she disappears amongst the crowd.

I push through the crowd towards the nearest train station. I know I can take the train, then a bus, to Genevieve's mansion, but I'm not entirely certain how. Dashing up the steps, I see the train in front of me, the doors closing. I run as fast as I can, but I still miss the train. I sit down on a bench heavily, knowing it'll be another twenty minutes or so before the next one arrives. My cell phone is still clutched in my hand. I remember Bruce telling me to call Alfred if I have any trouble. Would needing a ride home be considered enough of a troubling situation to warrant a call?

I have my doubts, but I give Alfred a ring anyway.

"Alfred, I've been following Rachel all day. I think she's going to be okay," I tell him when he answers the phone.

"I am glad to hear that Miss Lyn."

"Currently she's at an election party with Harvey Dent, who won by the way."

"Do you have any problems to report?"

"No, that's what I'm trying to say. I'm finished with spying on Rachel…and I need to get to a portrait client's house by 8:00," I hesitate, feeling slightly foolish, "And I'm out of transportation options."

"What would you like me to do?"

"Would it be too much trouble to ask you to drive me to the Palisades? I'd really appreciate it."

"After putting up with Master Wayne's requests all day, I'm sure you deserve a ride," Alfred says, his voice betraying his disapproval of Bruce's decision about Rachel.

"Thank you Alfred! Mrs. Lawton was unusually insistent on me being there tonight," I say with relief.

"You're going to the Lawton's home?"

"Yes, I'm painting a portrait of the family of four."

"May I ask if you've met Floyd Lawton?"

"I have."

"What do you think of him?"

I falter, wondering why Alfred was asking me.

"I think he… is very charming. A gentleman who enjoys sports. And maybe is a little too competitive."

"I see." A thoughtful pause, "I will be there in ten minutes Miss Lyn."

"See you soon."

I hang up the phone and walk back down the stairs to the ground level. All around me people continue to celebrate in the streets. The charged atmosphere continues to amaze me. I find a semi-deserted street where the traffic seems to be flowing easier and try to call Alfred to tell him where he can find me.

"Is there something else I can do for you?" Alfred's voice echoes over the phone.

"I was just calling to tell you where to pick me up."

"Not to worry. Master Wayne took the liberty of installing a tracking device on your phone. I can see your location as we speak."

"What?" I exclaim, "You can't be serious. Bruce doesn't have you follow me like he instructed me to follow Rachel, does he? With all these layers and layers of spying, it's a wonder anyone can keep secrets around here anymore. Not that certain election candidates are even trying," I add bitterly.

"Thankfully, no, Master Wayne has not requested me to track your movements. However, knowing both your position and Master Wayne's enables me to help direct the action from home. I'm sure you would also find such a device useful if you had my duties."

"Okay, I'll take your word for it. And knowing where I am 24/7 is a little less creepy than following me around on my heels 24/7, so I guess I should be grateful."

"Quite."

A car pulls up in front of me at that moment and Alfred steps out.

"How?" I stammer into the phone.

"Speaker phone, Miss Lyn," Alfred says, winking as he opens the door for me to get in.

I nod my thanks, "Do you know the directions to the Lawton's mansion?"

"Of course," Alfred assures me, pushing some buttons on the GPS.

The car drive is long, and silent. Unwilling to gossip about his employer, I find little else to talk to Alfred about. The last thing I need right now is the scene between Rachel and Dent replaying over and over in my head. Except somehow my mind substitutes Dent for Bruce. I awkwardly stare out the window, wishing desperately for the ability to ignore my romantic entanglements as Teresa did so easily.

"Alfred, how did you become the Wayne's butler?" I ask spontaneously, wishing immediately afterward to take the impertinent question back.

"A long story, Miss Lyn."

"We have some more time," I suggest.

"And not one for a casual drive."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."

"Remind me sometime. Say, for example, when we're idly waiting for Bruce's return."

"Certainly," I say, surprised.

We turn into the driveway of the Lawton mansion. I knock softly on the door, hesitant to enter. The Lawton's butler, as different from Alfred as day is from night, peers down his nose at me with disgust and mutely steps aside to admit me.

"Thank you," I say, taking a mocking bow, "Genevieve? Are you ready for me to begin painting?"

Genevieve glides into the room, wearing the same evening gown as before, "Of course. It's so nice to see you again!" she exclaims loudly. Genevieve comes closer and closer, eventually whispering in my ear, light as a bird, "Don't mention the election. Not a single word, my husband's preferred candidate lost, so it's a rather touchy subject at the moment."

"Of course," I whisper back, "I wasn't intending to say a word."

"And take this off," Genevieve hisses, tearing the "I believe in Harvey Dent" sticker from the back of my jacket that Teresa had stuck on to me without my noticing. She turns to walk into the next room, pauses as if considering something, then says in a haughty manner, "And for the record, I voted for Harvey Dent. I just want you to know that."

Genevieve continues on as if nothing passed between us.

In the main room my painting and materials are set up as before. George and Floyd Lawton are lounging in distinctly separate areas of the room. George strikes a pose in front of the window, anguish and worry draped around him. Floyd eyes his father nervously, hunching quietly in a corner. The proud, gregarious young man I knew him to be appears to be gone. When they see me, Floyd's eyes immediately brighten. I have to admit, I'm somewhat surprised at his reaction. I had not expected him to anticipate my arrival.

"Good, we can get on with this," Floyd says, pushing himself up from the couch.

"Yes, let's all get back in positions," Genevieve instructs, forcing a huge smile.

I spend ten minutes rearranging my sitters perfectly and then finally get back to painting. Just as I've hit the stage in painting where the entire world fades away, leaving only the blotches of colors in front of me and on the canvas, a shrill ringing phone interrupts the silence.

"I must take this," George Lawton says briskly, stepping out of position.

I swallow a groan and nod bravely.

"Ann," Genevieve barks to the maid, "Tell Mr. Lawton business calls must not be taken after dark. Remind him of his promise to me."

Ann, the maid, steps forward from behind a chair looking positively terrified.

"You may enlighten Mrs. Lawton to the fact that she holds no sway over what I may or may not do," George Lawton opens the study door wide.

"If Mr. Lawton takes one more step away from this room, there will be no end of trouble," Genevieve trills, shaking with rage.

"Mrs. Lawton may remember what the outcome of this election means for this family. Thus she will know the crisis we are currently facing. But instead, I'm afraid she prefers to stick her head in the sand. Well, let her preserve her ignorance, I say." Mr. Lawton huffs angrily and strides into his office.

"If I were not ignorant I would share your fate," Genevieve shoots up from her seat, stamping her foot in frustration.

"You will share my fate whether ignorant or not," Mr. Lawton warns, pointing a finger at her through the study door.

By this point the phone has stopped ringing. I stand by the painting, forcing myself to continue with the two son's faces. Ironically, the situation is ideal in that this is the first time the usually fidgety, anxious Floyd is literally frozen in his seat. Unfortunately this also means the expressions of the people in the portrait are looking consistently more and more pained.

The maid takes this moment to make a run for it and disappears out the door, probably never to return.

"Blasted woman, you made me miss the call. Do you realize what you have done?" Mr. Lawton comes charging into the main room, waving an engraved letter opener, and heading straight for Genevieve.

Genevieve's proud profile falls, and she finally begins to show her fear.

"I am sick of them calling the house!" Genevieve yells hysterically, "I am heartily sick of everything. This needs to stop, George!"

"This, Genevieve, helps keep you off the streets and pays for your pretty portrait commissions," George Lawton grabs Genevieve by the shoulder, shaking her.

I hover nearby, one hand clutching my palette knife, trying to decide when to interfere, and slightly frozen in shock.

George Lawton, recognizing that inflicting harm on Genevieve would have repercussions, decides to take his anger out on my canvas instead. His jab rips straight through the center, perfectly dividing Mr. and Mrs. Lawton's images and decapitating Edward Lawton.

In the split second George Lawton is distracted by my painting, I make a grab for the hyperventilating Genevieve, dragging her away from her husband. Positioning myself and my pallet knife between Genevieve and Mr. Lawton, I hunt for an escape. Somehow Genevieve and I ended up next to the parlor windows with Mr. Lawton and the painting blocking all exits.

George Lawton catches sight of me brandishing my knife and pulls the gigantic canvas of the painting apart to better get at us. His foot kicks out the bottom of the painting off the stretchers.

As he emerges through the ripped layers of canvas, a tiny red speck of light appears wavering on George Lawton's forehead.

Genevieve screams and her knees buckle. She falls, pulling me down with her. A shot rings out and I throw myself on top of Genevieve, covering my head and bracing myself for the broken glass shattering around us.

Yet the shattering of glass never comes. Shaking, I look up to see George Lawton poised in the middle of my canvas. His face is transfixed in horror at the window. I clamber to my feet, leaving Genevieve on the floor and try to make out something in the darkness outside. But all I can see is the dim outline of a tree.

I'm completely unprepared when the screaming starts. A high pitched, sobbing shriek coming from outside. Immediately Genevieve is on her feet, as if her legs hadn't collapsed underneath her a few seconds ago. She takes off running. The two of us dash outside to see the maid bending over a dark heap, her hands covering her mouth and whimpering in shock.

As we get closer I recognize the dark shape as the handsome man from the train, Edward Lawton. His body is twisted in a way that is not natural. Seeing her son, Genevieve seems to fly towards him. I give them space, pulling the maid away from the scene.

"It's ok," I don't know anything else to say, "It's going to be ok." I push her down onto a stump and drape my painting smock over her shoulders. Her shivering slows to a stop.

"He fell," she says, "He just dropped. Like the birds he used to shoot out of the sky."

"The tree branch must have broken," I say, pointing to the branch lying nearby "A tragic accident."

I have my own suspicions, however. The light on George Lawton's head could have been from a mob sniper and Edward Lawton could have merely been collateral damage. I pull out my phone and call the police. Looking back at Genevieve cradling Edward's body I can see the intended target, George Lawton, through the brightly lit window, still in the same place, staring.

By the time the police arrive, a yellow line is put up around the body, and the living occupants of the house are herded into the front yard. It's long past midnight. I sit on the bottom step of the Lawton's grand stone staircase, waiting anxiously for a familiar pair of bright headlights. Witnessing the sudden death of an estranged member of Gotham's second wealthiest family is certainly enough trouble to warrant a ride home.

When the limo finally appears the tires squeal to a stop: odd compared to Alfred's usually controlled, careful driving. The side door bangs open and Bruce jumps out without waiting for Alfred's assistance. In two brisk strides he closes the distance between us.

He lifts me to my feet. After sparing a quick glance to ensure I'm in one piece, he wraps me in a nearly crushing embrace.

"That had to be the quickest costume change you've done yet," I comment quietly, "Weren't you chasing after criminals ten minutes ago?"

Bruce ignores my teasing question.

"You know, when I told you to make sure Rachel was out of harms way, I didn't intend for you to get yourself into it," he whispers into my hair.

"I had my trusty knife," I explain, referring to the palette knife still clutched in my left fist, "I was perfectly safe."

Bruce breaks our hug and gently pries the knife out of my hand. He drags a thumb across the blunt edge.

"About as sharp as a butter knife," he says, a wry smile playing on his lips, "You couldn't even hurt the paint."

He hands the knife back to me and sighs. With one last glance up at Genevieve, George, and Floyd being interrogated by the cops, Bruce settles an arm around my shoulders and directs me toward the car.

"Where are we going?" I ask, worrying about Genevieve and dying of curiosity to know what really happening.

"I'm taking you home," he says.

"And would that be the bunker or the penthouse?" I ask, getting into the limo.

"The penthouse, Alfred, please," Bruce says, directing the answer to his butler.

"Of course, sir," Alfred says with a slightly self-satisfied grin on his face.

On the way back I report to Bruce on the events at the Lawtons.

"The way he was stretched across the ground….he fell limply. I don't know how, but Edward Lawton was dead before that branch broke," I conclude.

Bruce stays quiet for a while, thinking.

"Poor Floyd," he says, bracing his head against his hand, "Such a shame."

"I'm concerned about Genevieve. The Lawtons may have disinherited Edward, but she obviously still cared for him," I add quietly.

"I will find whoever did it," Bruce confirms my unspoken question.

The rest of the ride is in silence.

In the penthouse, over a tray of calming orange juice and tea, I try to nudge Bruce out of his shell, "Rachel remains safe, right?"

A grudging "Of course," is his only reply.

I move on to a different topic, which has been nagging me since yesterday.

"At the picnic, I overheard Floyd accusing his brother of 'destroying everything'. He told him not to come to the house."

"What are you insinuating?" Bruce asks defensively.

"I'm suggesting that must have been the reason why Edward was outside. Up a tree. Rather than sitting for my painting. Where he should have been."

"If you're thinking Floyd is the killer, you're wrong. Floyd idolized his brother."

"I'm not accusing Floyd of anything. I think Edward was in the wrong place at the wrong time. George Lawton was terrified of something. And that something must have gotten his son instead. So it wasn't Floyd's fault exactly, just a coincidence," I argue, "Now that I think about it, even Genevieve was scared. She called me tonight, specifically, and talked a lot about the elections before the session. Something about Harvey Dent's win set George Lawton off. Who was the mob's candidate this time around? They must have lost."

"Maybe," Bruce says. He stands abruptly, his eyes sweeping across the city outside the window, "Either way, if it's a mob connection, someone will know."

Silence settles over us again.

"Well, I'm going to bed. It has been a very long day," I announce, setting down my orange juice, "Where would bed be exactly?"

"Take mine," Bruce says, still distracted by his thoughts, "I'll be staying up a while longer."

I sigh, noticing Bruce's concern in the stiffness of his shoulders and neck. "Goodnight, Batboy," I tell him quietly.

"Batman," Bruce corrects, rewarding my efforts with a slight smile.

In his bedroom I change into a pair of his sleep clothes and climb into the large bed. Burrowing under the covers that smell so much like him, I take comfort in the fantasy of him sleeping next to me. But when I close my eyes to fall asleep all I can see is the haunted gaze of George Lawton. The death of Edward replays vividly in my mind. My senses seem heightened. I can hear the snap of the branch, the tear of the painting's canvas, and feel the heavy weight of Edward crumpled on the ground. The reality of someone I knew, someone I had painted from a photo, dying, starts to hit. I curl up around one of Bruce's fancy silk pillows.

After a few minutes I feel a warm hand gently rest on the covers across my back. I lift the duvet off my head to find Bruce sitting at the edge of the bed, studying a ceramic bowl on the nightstand. Stranded in the middle of the nearly empty bowl are three pearls. Bruce's hand unconsciously smoothes the covers.

"Why do we fall?" Bruce wonders, more of a statement than a question, "So we can learn to pick ourselves up."

"Those pearls…where did they come from?" I ask.

"My father gave them to my mother the night she died."

"Why so few?"

"The man who killed my mother tried to steal her jewelry. The strand of pearls snapped. When they caught him, the man still had these three in his pocket."

I take his hand silently.

Without getting underneath the covers, he stretches out on the bed facing me and wraps my ice cold hands in his.

"How does one pick oneself up from this?" I whisper.

"You don't," he replies, "You learn you can fall again."


	23. Week 3:Saturday

A/N: Thousands of thanks for all the reviews! Seriously, reviews feed my belief that I am a passable writer, which fuels my need to write my unnecessarily elaborate daydreams down, so ultimately reviews mean more chapters.

Also, Google "Pittsburgh Children's Museum limb bender" to see this maze I'm talking about. It's awesome. I know this from personal experience. The eye also existed at one point, but that was slightly creepier and less awesome.

22: Saturday

I wake up with a face full of creamy hues. The groggy, half dreaming part of my brain believes for a second that the peachy satin I'm cradling is Bruce. It takes a minute for me to register I'm hugging the billionaire's expensive pillow. A newly acquired drool stain pools on the edge of the fabric. The bedroom door clicks open and Alfred pads in with a tray full of breakfast food.

"What time is it?" I ask.

"Nearly one in the afternoon, Miss Lyn," Alfred replies.

"And where is Bruce?"

"Hibernating in his underground lair I presume," Alfred sighs, "Once again."

"He left this morning?"

"If he did he didn't bother with the courtesy of informing me," Alfred explains, "And your breakfast has been languishing on this tray for five hours now. I suggest you put the muffin out of its misery."

I guiltily stuff my face with pastries while trying to hide my least favorite food in the world, bacon, under a cloth napkin.

After breakfast, and a particularly long shower in Bruce's sumptuous bathroom with the faucets turned to the hottest temperature setting and magically never going cold, Alfred drops me off at the bunker.

"Tell Master Wayne I will be along momentarily with a fresh breakfast," Alfred says, "And next time, leave any food you don't want on the plate. I'll need extra soap to rid the napkin of the bacon scent."

I escape without answering Alfred's complaint by slipping into the container. Bruce doesn't even look up from his computer as the ceiling lift meets the floor and I step into the bunker.

"Alfred is getting a replacement for the breakfast you let go to waste this morning," I tease.

"By now he should know to eat the breakfast himself," Bruce responds.

"From what he tells me, you aren't spending much time in the apartment."

"I find it easier to stay here when I come back late. Alfred begs me to put up a cot here and give up on the penthouse pretense."

"Do you ever sleep?"

"Only when I have to," Bruce smiles at me, "I didn't want to disturb you this morning. You looked awfully comfortable with my pillow."

"Your pillow was being very friendly," I retort, smiling sweetly back.

"Friendly?" Bruce raises an eyebrow.

I cough slightly and change the subject. "If you're so sick of the penthouse, I could take it off your hands for you. I am in the market for a new apartment after all."

Bruce chuckles, "A bit out of your price range, I would think."

"I never said anything about paying for it," I reply, "If you aren't sleeping there anyway, I would be perfectly comfortable occupying it for you."

I walk over to the computer desk.

"Weekends are intended for relaxation," I add, "Not for chasing after mob assassins."

"We don't know what that was last night," Bruce reminds me, "We haven't even caught Feely yet. With no leads."

I sigh and pick up my sketchbook to doodle Bruce. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm guessing your extended search for bad guys means that yet again I'll be stood up at yet another restaurant. At least this time you picked that new fondue place. I think the Gotham Hotel must be heartily sick of my lonely presence by now."

Bruce says nothing.

I grin impishly.

"Why do I sacrifice my dignity to give you a more believable cover story? " I ask, laughing a little, "By the time our 'relationship' is over I'll be able to write a review on every restaurant in town detailing just how courteous the wait staff acts towards pitiable, rebuffed guests."

"Why not submit it to the _Gotham Daily_?" Bruce suggests, offering a miniscule smile.

"You do realize the only reason those restaurants put up with me is your name. If it was anyone else I'd be tossed out the door without an apology for not being a profitable customer. When I agreed to help Batman I never imagined I would become part of your Prince of Gotham charade," I chastise, rolling my eyes.

"Would you rather be chasing the bad guys?"

"Yes," I respond immediately, "If I could."

"Well," Bruce says, getting up and turning to me, "If you refuse to learn to plant your feet when you stand, and continue to lean on one hip, making it simple to knock you off balance.." he hooks one foot behind my knee and sweeps me off my feet, catching me before I hit the ground, "…you'll never be able to hold your own in a fight." Bruce sets me back on my feet and adjusts my stance. He then tries the same trick, but this time I mysteriously, effortlessly manage to stay upright.

"Come on, I'll give you another fighting lesson," Bruce pulls out the boxing gloves and a punching bag.

"Only if you let me get in a few free punches as repayment for the humiliation I will be suffering tonight," I say, jabbing him in the shoulder.

He just laughs and corrects my retraction.

Halfway through our training time, an unusual flurry of activity comes from Bruce's police scanner. Immediately, Bruce strides over and concentrates his entire attention on the radio. At almost precisely the same moment, my phone starts ringing. I pick it up and see it's Rose.

"Hi," I tell her, "Something just came up and I'm kind of busy right now. Can I call you later?"

"Not exactly. Lyn, I'm on a field trip at the children's museum with the library's summer kids program. Something has happened. They dragged me out and won't let me back in. I can't find little Cecil anywhere and Joan isn't answering her phone," Rose continues to talk, but I can't understand a word she says in her rush to get the story out.

"Rose. Deep breaths," I say, forcing calm in my voice, "Who dragged you out?"

"The police!"

"The police?" I ask, stunned. I look up to find Bruce gesturing at me to put the phone down.

"Rose, I will be there as soon as I can," I inform her.

Bruce is already readying his bat suit.

"Gotham Children's Museum opened a special machine learning, art and technology exhibit today. A few of the installations are malfunctioning," he tells me.

"Malfunctioning? Of course, Jacob Feely, the electronics and explosives expert," I say, realization dawning, "What do we do?"

"You are going to go take care of your friend. She offers you an excuse to get close to the scene," he says, tossing a motorcycle helmet at me, "And I'm going to catch Feely."

"As Batman? In the middle of the afternoon? Isn't that a risk?"

"It's the children's museum. I'll take that risk."

I nod mutely, wheeling the motorcycle to the container exit. Behind me, Bruce changes into his suit and climbs into the tumbler. I catch a last glimpse of the tumbler shooting out of the secret garage door. Swinging a leg over the motorcycle, I don't even have a second to register that this is my first ride alone. All my thoughts are centered on catching the madman who treats electronics and humans as his playthings. On the way to the museum I imagine Feely's scornful face laughing at my attempts to stop him.

I brake hard in front of the parking lot, nearly dropping the bike. Rose recognizes me as soon as I take off the helmet. She rushes over and throws her arms around me. I survey the damage. The entire entrance of the museum is littered with rubble. Sidewalks are strewn with holes. Not a single sign remains standing. Presiding over all the destruction is a long, wormlike projection from the roof of the building. An unblinking eye swivels back and forth at the tip of the worm, following anyone who tries to come near.

"Stay back," Rose warns, "The robot eye that was supposed to interact with kids and wave to them as they entered the building has starting throwing small explosives. The rest of the museum is on lockdown. No one can get in or out except through the front door. The police say they are waiting for backup."

"Are there any kids still in the building?"

"Just Cecil," Rose says, her eyes welling up with tears, "The police say he was trapped in the platform maze while they evacuated everyone. They think he got trapped next to another bomb. No one knows how much time we have."

"And no one is doing anything?" I demand, wondering why Bruce wasn't here already.

"Batman showed up. Everyone was shocked at first. We've never seen him in the daytime, have we? But he couldn't get past the eye either. It throws bombs at anything that moves. And it learns. The robot grew too clever for any of the ploys Batman or the police tried."

"Where is Batman now? He would never give up."

"No idea," Rose chokes out between sniffles, "Obviously he must have."

Before the words are out of Rose's mouth a dark cape launches off the top roof of the museum and lands on the second tier where the eye sits, covering the robot completely. The robot stays still, as if it hasn't even detected the large cape blocking its view. I start to run forward, only to hastily jump back as a projectile is aimed directly for me. Had I stayed still, I would probably have been severely injured, though thankfully not a smear on the pavement. Instead the force of the explosion propells me to the street, covering me in a layer of dirt. As I scramble backwards, I catch sight of a camera on the right side of the robot twitching back into place.

"The actual camera is not in the eye! It's on the side!" I yell at Batman, pointing.

Sparing no time to acknowledge me, Batman pulls his cape from the eye and throws it over the camera. Lifeless, without a video feed to tell it where to launch the next explosive, the eye starts to shoot bombs randomly. The people gathered in the street start screaming and run in the opposite direction. Batman snaps the eye off its pedestal and tosses it to the ground. Being eyeless doesn't stop the explosives, however. Ignoring the bombs going off around him, Batman swings from the roof and disappears through the door.

I stare transfixed at the ground shattering into pieces in front of me. Rose tries to drag me back along with all of the kids she has clinging to her. I catch hold of one spot in my line of sight and watch it.

After a few minutes the spot explodes for a second time.

A third.

A pattern emerges in the explosions now that the machine has lost its information source.

Twisting out of Rose's arms I lunge forward.

"Lyn!" she screams, "What do you think you're doing?"

"Proving something," I mutter, too low for her to hear.

I doge the clutching arms of a police officer. After every step I can feel the ground behind me shaking. Somehow I weave in and out of the pattern of small explosions. On the last one I miscalculate. The largest explosion yet knocks me off my feet, but sends me flying onto the museum porch. Ignoring the pain I stumble to my feet and run inside, slamming the door shut as a precaution. The lock clicks.

Deciding I'll let Batman deal with the door problem later, I move further into the museum. The eerie quiet and darkness of the place envelops me, contrasting starkly with the madness outside. Batman crouches at the entrance to the platform maze, attempting to pry a platform off with his hands. The maze soars three stories tall, in a column of plastic platforms scattered across the expanse between two walls. A wire mesh encloses either side to keep kids from falling off. Six new electronic devices have been added to the maze. Attached to the wires above various platforms blink 6 round, light-up buttons. Long tendrils of rope lights snake up and disappear into the second and third stories of the maze. Somewhere above us I can hear Cecil screaming his frustration at being stuck.

"Your shoulders will never fit through that," I warn Batman, coming up to stand next to him.

He jerks upward with his body half inside the maze, bumping his head on a platform. Turning to face me, I can see Bruce's eyes widen behind the mask. I suppose I must look a sight, having just run through a field of explosions.

"You're lucky I fought my way in," I tell him, "And that I stopped growing after middle school." I crouch down and am about to drag my aching body up to Cecil when Batman stops me. He gestures to a note tacked on the wall next to the Artist's statement about the new installation.

"It's from Feely," I read aloud, snatching the document down, "A bunch of nonsense! Move, push, pop, leave…what does this mean?"

"It's the key to deactivate the bomb," Batman growls, "If we can read it."

"Knowing Feely, these numbers and symbols must have something to do with computers," I search my pockets for my phone. Thankfully, the device still works despite having been subjected to blasts of cement. I dial the number for Mr. Fox, the only person I know who can have a chance at beating Feely at his own game.

"Hello?" the voice who answers is definitely not Lucius Fox.

"Hello, this is Lyn. I need to speak with Mr. Fox urgently," I say.

"Hey Lyn! This is Drake. Dad must have forgotten his phone down here in Applied Sciences."

"What are you doing in…? Never mind," I swallow my questions for later, "Do you know computers?"

"Lyn, I majored in Computer Science," Drake says, a tad condescendingly, "I find programming gets to be a dreadful bore after a while though."

"I have a sheet of words with numbers, percentages, and weird 8 digit numbers on the right. If I take a photo and send it to you, can you decipher it?"

"Send it over. What do the words say?"

"Uh…pushq, pushq, movq, addq, movq…things like that," I say.

"With numbers, parentheses, and percentages? Sounds like assembly. And in x86-64 architecture since it uses quad words instead of long words. Who in their right mind bothers with machine code anymore? Aside from extreme geeks involved in systems."

"I never said the paper was written by someone in their right mind. I'm sending it to you now."

"I'll pull it up on my computer. I haven't read machine code in years. The last time I looked at it was for a programming lab as a sophomore in college. We had to solve riddles from disassembled object code and input the correct words, or else a virtual bomb would explode and crash the program. I got full marks."

"Well, pretend you're doing the assignment again. Only this time a kid's life is at stake."

"What? You can't be serious."

"Get decoding!" I order him.

"Okay! But just to warn you, I only got full marks because they gave us two free explosions."

"Thanks for the reassuring words," I glower at the phone.

"Damn, the code is obfuscated! Whoever wrote this puzzle must be a mastermind!"

"I don't care how oscillated it is, can you fix it?"

"Obfuscated, not oscillated," he corrects, "And as the winner of the 'Worst Abuse of the C preprocessor' award in the IOCCC two years in a row, I think I've got this guy beat."

I hover anxiously, feeling helpless. Batman comes up behind me.

"I checked the kid on the third floor," he says gruffly, "He's fine but trapped between the mesh and the bomb. The bomb is set to explode in fifteen minutes."

"You have less than fifteen minutes Drake," I say into the phone.

Through the phone I can hear Drake muttering about variables, registries, and addresses. The mumbling goes on for what feels like hours. Batman and I sit on the stairs, waiting, and probably looking comical.

"Lyn?" Drake asks.

"Yes!"

"So, six of the registries appear to be associated with six different variables named after colors, swapping addresses in memory, so the variables end up in a specific order on the stack. Does that seem right?"

"In English please."

"Could the riddle be answered with a series of colors?"

"We have six different colored buttons to push in a maze. Your theory sounds reasonable."

"A maze? Please tell me this is a joke."

"Keep decoding, Drake. What is the first button?"

"Green."

I groan, watching the flashing green light coming from the second or third floor.

"Drake, keep telling me the next buttons. I'm handing the phone over to a friend. He's not a big talker but he'll relay your messages to me."

I push the phone onto Batman and crawl inside the maze. Getting to the top is difficult, even for someone as small as me. I slam my fist into the green button. Immediately the light clicks off. Relieved that our guess worked so far, I look down at Batman for the next instruction.

"Red," he yells after listening into the phone.

I swing down three stories and race to the bottom platform, slamming the red button. Within minutes I'm rushing off to the Blue button, and then yellow, and then orange, and finally purple at the very top. As I reach Cecil I can see the red blinking clock counting down. With seconds to spare I fling myself onto the platform next to the little boy and slam the last button. The handcuffs around Cecil's wrists unclick and he throws his arms around me.

"You're safe now, Cecil," I say, finding it difficult to breathe with him hanging around my neck.

Somewhere below us I hear a door pound open. I guess that when I deactivated the bomb, the explosions in the front turned off as well.

"Cecil!" Joan's voice floats up to us.

"Mommy!" the boy yells back, scrambling out of my arms and down the maze faster than I could possibly hope to go. By the time I reach the bottom, Batman is long gone. Rose hands me my phone. The police start ushering us out of the building.

"Lyn?" Drake's voice is yelling out of the phone.

"Drake, I'm fine," I assure him, "Your solution worked the first time we tried it!"

"Can you inform my old programming professors? They'll never believe you."

I laugh, "I'll see what I can do."

As we step outside the museum a cheer rises up from the watching parents and children. Overwhelmed, I smile and wave.

"Do I hear cheering?" Drake asks.

"You do," I reply.

"Cheering for programming! And I'm missing it!"

"Next time I need to stop a bomb from detonating in the middle of the children's museum, I'll be sure to bring you along."

"Why don't you just give me a job in the archives officially, and we'll call it even?"

"Fair trade. Welcome to Wayne Enterprises, Drake Fox."

"Thanks. I should probably get back to my work. The computer is beeping sounds at me I don't recognize, and that's never a good sign," Drake hangs up on me before I can ask him what he is working on.

The police lead me over to a waiting ambulance. Joan, Rose, and Cecil, who are entirely unharmed, go over to talk to reporters. Waiting paramedics check me out, pronounce me ok except for possibly having some very strange bruises for a week or two, and leave me alone. I sit on the back of the ambulance, basking in the admiration for a bit. Not being the invisible one for once feels empowering. My complaining muscles ache horribly with every movement after being distorted so awkwardly in the maze and do not feel nearly as nice.

"An archivist, an artist, and now a computer scientist," a voice drawls next to my ear.

I jump slightly, pain shooting down my legs. A man, dressed casually with a matted tangle of black hair slides in close to me.

"Feely," I growl.

He touches my side with a concealed knife, "I wouldn't make a fuss."

"Wasn't going to," I retort, glaring at him.

"How did you solve my riddle?" he asks, "When I thought up who could get the correct answer, you didn't even make the bottom of the list."

"I'm just a genius, I guess."

"No," he says, "I know geniuses, and you are definitely not. You had help. Who?"

"If I did have a source who could get the best of you, I'm not about to give them up."

I feel the prick of a knife through my clothes.

"Even under threat," I add.

"I was watching the entire time," Feely brags, "You were awfully friendly with the bat."

"At the time, we had the same goal. He could have been the rat man and I wouldn't have cared as long as he helped."

"He could be a genius. Did he solve the riddle?" Feely's voice drips with eagerness.

"Wait a minute," I say, laughing despite the situation, "You claim some anonymous man who thinks he's a bat could be a genius, but refuse to believe I figured out what a string of numbers meant?"

"The fact that you call the instructions a 'string of numbers' proves you never understood a single line of my code," Feely says haughtily, glowing with pride.

"Maybe I didn't have to understand it. Maybe I guessed."

Feely narrows his eyes at me, "You got lucky then. You won't get so lucky next time."

"Perhaps the bat genius will catch you before you ever get a next time."

Feely laughs, "He won't catch me. He fell for my decoy and went chasing after the first person who showed up all in black. It's all part of the plan."

"You have a partner in crime now?"

"A temporary necessity."

"Who?" I ask, knowing Feely will not answer the question.

He simply grins manically at me and hands me an envelope.

"Give this to Floyd Lawton. Feel free to look inside. It'll only embarrass him," Feely sneers.

I take the package, curiosity getting the better of my judgment. Hopefully I won't be blown up after Feely leaves.

"The bomb at the top of the maze was just a ruse, by the way. I'm not in the business of killing people," Feely adds.

"Why, then?"

"I needed to asses a certain crime fighter's capability. You spoiled that."

"Sorry to disappoint."

He twitches as if about to leave, but something holds him back.

"Are you going to stab me here, in front of all these police?" I question him calmly, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course not, stupid," he says, distractedly. He pockets the knife, giving up on the pretense.

Immediately, I leap up, intending to head for the nearest officer. Feely catches my arm and uses my momentum to turn me around. He stands, narrowing his eyes at me. Feely's stringy black hair half obscures his face and falls into mine.

"Be careful. My partner is getting curious about you," Feely spats, threateningly.

Then, quick as the explosives he sets off, Feely is gone.

"Officer!" I yell at no one in particular, knowing the futility of the gesture.

"Is there a problem?" Lieutenant Gordon asks, jogging over to me.

"Jacob Feely, the escaped Arkham inmate was here," I point in the general direction of where he disappeared to.

Gordon takes action, directing a squad of cars to spread out.

"Don't leave yet," he tells me. He gets on his radio and sets up a perimeter around the museum.

"Who was that creepy looking guy talking to you?" Rose asks, coming up.

"Jacob Feely," I answer, "The man responsible for hijacking the machine learning installations at the museum. And these police idling about didn't even recognize him."

Gordon, overhearing my comment, throws me a sardonic expression.

"Lieutenant, someone to see you in the museum," Ramirez says.

In the background I can barely make out a pair of pointed black ears and cape lurking in the early evening shadows.

"So, what did Feely have to say to you?" Ramirez asks, looking skeptical.

"Nothing. I think he enjoys proving he has a higher intellect than me," I say and explain about the other interactions Feely and I have had.

Ramirez jots notes down, "Criminals showing obsessive, controlling, narcissistic behavior like Feely are highly dangerous. His attentions could turn into stalking. Maybe we should assign a protective detail to you and your high profile boyfriend for a couple days until he switches targets."

I choke down a laugh. As if I needed any more people overly concerned about my safety. Though witnessing Bruce's reaction to a cop trailing him might be worth it.

"Feely has had ample opportunities to harm me. If he hasn't killed me yet, I highly doubt he will," I argue.

Ramirez shrugs, "One less job for us then. Did Feely give up any useful information?"

"He said he had a partner. And that it was a temporary alliance," I inform her, "And he claimed to be studying Batman's abilities."

"Batman?" Ramirez's eyebrows shoot up.

"Feely neglected to mention his intentions towards Batman, but I would assume the worst. Do you think Feely's new partner could be that joker guy?"

"No, definitely not," Ramirez dismisses my theory, "The Joker pulls heists using guns and hostages. If he had Feely at his disposal, we would probably be dealing with much more complicated and elegant bank robberies. Currently the Joker's strategy consists of waving a gun around and shooting at anyone who gets in his way."

"Not Feely's style."

"Exactly," Ramirez confirms, "Thank you for your help. I suspect it'll be all over the news that a citizen braved the explosives to rescue the kid rather than an officer. If Gordon and I had arrived sooner, you would not have had to do what you did."

"I watched that kid grow up. I wasn't about to sit by and watch while Cecil was strapped to some bomb."

"Yeah? Well, thanks anyways," Ramirez assesses me, "Ever considered a career as a cop?"

"Not yet," I laugh, "But maybe if I get fired as an archivist."

Ramirez shakes her head, smiling, and moves on to the next person to interview.

Rose sits down next to me and pulls out her cell phone, "Now that this is all over, I'm going to have to start calling kid's parents. We were supposed to be back to the library hours ago." She gestures towards a pile of screaming kids who are busy swarming over the museum's playground. The excitement of the police cars and flashing lights only kept their interest for a short time.

Checking the time I realize my table reservation starts in under an hour. I debate whether or not to skip the reservation. However, the restaurant is new, it took weeks to book the table, and my stomach is growling very loudly. The least I can do is show up and let Bruce play the idiot again. I decide to stop by Eleanor's in the hope of borrowing a suitable outfit since her place is closer.

"Lynnet, you have perfect timing!" Eleanor announces when I show up at her door, "I just finished a rather experimental knit dress I made for you." She bustles me into her bedroom to wait.

While she runs to the closet to fetch the knitted garment, I inwardly groan. The last dress Eleanor knitted for me transformed me into a walking orange marshmallow or a toothpick depending on which side one was looking at.

"You look horrible, by the way. What did you get yourself into this time?" Eleanor asks, referring to the various dust, dirt, and scrapes across my body. "Take a shower first, dear. I'm not having my endless hours of 'knit one, purl two' be ruined by whatever brown substance is oozing out of your hair."

"I guess I'm a little dirtier than I realized. I had a…conflict with a robotic eye."

"Did you wrestle with the eye in the mud?"

"It threw small explosives at me."

"Next time, dodge better," Eleanor admonishes, shooing me into the bathroom.

While I wash off all the grime of today's excursion, Eleanor weaves in the last yarn strands of the dress.

"Since you are here, I have a small request," Eleanor has to practically yell to make herself heard over the shower.

"As long as I don't have to battle more robotic arms…"

"I need you to attend church with me tomorrow," Eleanor announces, ignoring my comment.

"The robotic arm option is starting to sound better…"

"Cardinal O'Fallon, a very nice man, is receiving threats from an unknown criminal. And maybe if you paid attention to the sermons you wouldn't act like such a heathen, rolling around in the dirt with robots."

"Threats? Who would threaten a cardinal?"

"Someone who hates the homeless, apparently. The anonymous messages left at the church insist the cardinal end our congregation's weekly homeless shelter dinners."

"It's probably a hoax."

"In Gotham, there are enough criminals to make me worried."

"Okay, I'll go if it'll help ease your mind."

"Thank you, dear," Eleanor says, "I'm leaving the dress on the bed. Come get me when you've got it on." I hear the door close after her.

I end my shower pretty quickly, trying to guess the probability of my dress ending up on a Gotham tabloid's worst dressed list. With my imagination full of orange marshmallows, I'm fully unprepared for the lace knit, pale blue confection floating on the bed. Picking up the dress, I guess the yarn is a combination of silk and cotton. The result is beautiful despite being the strangest dress I've ever seen. The dress slides gracefully over my head.

"How long did this take?" I ask Eleanor when she comes back in the room.

"A year or two. There are three layers of lace in that skirt," Eleanor replies.

"It's amazing," I say, "But frankly I look like I stepped out of the 1920's."

"Yes, the pattern was rather old," Eleanor admits, "Though I raised the hemline quite a bit. Flappers kept their hems just above the ankle. My mother wore a dress like this when she went out partying back in her day."

"Thank you, Eleanor," I say, earnestly.

"You can thank me by dumping that immature bat creature," she complains while attempting to wrestle my hair into submission.

"I'm afraid it's a little more complicated than that."

"I certainly hope all the effort I'm going through right now isn't for some date with your conceited celebrity boyfriend."

"Technically yes," I say, "In reality, I'll probably end up eating alone."

"What?" Eleanor exclaims, accidentally clipping my ear with the flat iron.

"We have to keep up appearances, even though he spends most nights beating up criminals."

"Never let a man's hobby get in the way of romance!"

"I would hardly call crime fighting a hobby," I say, laughing.

"What else would you call it? He's certainly not getting paid to do it."

"Don't worry about me Eleanor," I say, "I can take care of myself." I give her a quick hug before getting up to leave.

"I know you can take care of yourself, Lynnet," Eleanor says, "But sometimes in a relationship you have to let the other person care for you too."

"I'll see you later, Eleanor," I say, pulling on my jacket and getting a sudden mental image of myself riding a motorcycle in this dress. I'll have to drive very carefully and hope I don't fall.

"Not tonight, dear. I have a social life too, you know. I might be out late."

"That's fine, I'll be here."

"No, you don't understand. I will need a little bit of privacy tonight. Can you go stay at Chad's?"

"Sure, no problem," I say rather hastily, blushing.

"And make sure the paparazzi snap some photos of you at least. Let that ungrateful rich boy see what he's missing."

I hurry down her steps to my motorcycle, desperately wondering how a seventy year old woman enjoys a more lively romantic life than my own.

The answer becomes clear as I sit in the back of the restaurant, glumly building a miniature Matterhorn out of my white and gray napkin. I appropriate some of the leaves from the centerpiece to use as trees. At such a popular place, the waiters insist that the entire party be present before they start serving entrees. Unfortunately for me, the rule means I haven't eaten anything except bread for the past two hours.

To the left of me I can hear the soft tittering of a romantic conversation, but the people's faces are obscured by leafy green branches. The voices, however, I recognize. Once again the only thing separating me from Rachel Dawes and her political paramour is a potted plant. From snatches of overheard conversation, I gather that the D.A. and Assistant D.A are out on their first date.

Obviously, I fail at romance. Every time I hear Rachel's giggle or Harvey's low voiced compliments, I get a sudden urge to hurl in the glass of ice that a half hour ago was filled with tea. The wait staff might be more inclined to remove my glass and offer me a refill for the fifteenth time if it also contained vomit. If Bruce ever murmurs to me "I could listen to your enchanting voice forever," I might demonstrate that new Keysi technique on him.

To refrain from giving in to my gag reflex, I balance wine glasses precariously on the edge of the fondue pot in the shape of a castle. The rock hard sourdough rolls and various dinner forks become cement pilings. I'm concentrating entirely on the process of winding a drinking-straw-wrapper track around my monorail support system when a black suit blocks out the light.

"My darling Brucie will arrive any minute, I'm sure," I croon superficially in an imitation of Rachel, without taking my eyes off the very delicate task of welding the wrapper to the fork tip with a bit of water.

"If you fold the wrappers up into a zigzag pattern and put a drop of water on it, the wrapper will wriggle out like a worm," is the response I receive.

Shocked to find out my visitor is not a waiter I glance up. Floyd Lawton stands in front of me, looking every bit as dapper and cheerful as the day of the picnic. Confusion and utter embarrassment sets in.

"The grandmotherly figure in my life helped me master the worm trick when I was ten," I say, pretending to be unflustered by Floyd's sudden appearance, "I'm afraid I became more inventive in my dinner creations as I got older." I gesture to the Disneyland replica gracing my table.

"Very creative indeed," Floyd replies. He pulls out Bruce's seat and elegantly slides himself into my dinning area.

"Are you here with Mary?" I ask pointedly.

"No I came alone. Though I didn't expect you to be here. Or…darling Brucie."

A blush creeps over my face, "I'm afraid he was held back at the office."

"Business as usual," he suggests.

"Of course," I say.

"Of course, Bruce's absence means you're free to dine with someone else."

"I really don't think…" I search for a way to escape the situation.

Floyd refuses no for an answer and peels off the monorail track from the forks nearest him. As if on cue, the wait staff descends upon my table, whisking away all traces of my construction. Two menus magically appear in front of Floyd and me.

Clearly, everyone seems to accept Floyd Lawton as a suitable replacement for Bruce Wayne.

"How is your mother?" I ask.

Floyd's good humor temporarily vanishes from his face, "She's fine," he says shortly. The grimace is quickly masked by a glimmering smile.

"How can she be fine? The…" I stop myself, lean in closer to keep prying ears out of the conversation, "The death of one's son is not something you can get over in a day."

"She will be fine, then. Even if she's not now," Floyd retorts, "My brother's suicide was his own choice. Why he had to do it in front of his family…"

"Suicide?"

"Yes, I thought you saw."

"I saw your brother on the ground with a broken branch."

"He had a gun. We found it fallen a few feet from his body. He was shot in the head. I assume the gunshot somehow snapped the branch he was sitting on."

"A suicide," I collapse against the back of my chair, reeling.

"We don't know why he was in a tree. Perhaps he wanted the death to be dramatic. He had his style, my brother."

"How can you say that?" I accuse, "So soon?"

"He hurt my mother," Floyd says, "How could he do what he did right in front of her? Where she could find him?"

He composes himself, takes a deep breath, and smiles.

"I admired him for a time. I'm sorry he's dead. But my father has gone mute with shock, my mother hasn't come out of her locked room, and I'm the only one left to see to our family fortune. I'm afraid I have to be realistic," Floyd says.

"I'm sorry for your loss," I murmur earnestly, placing a comforting hand on his.

"Life goes on," he says, clinging to my touch.

The first cheese course arrives with accompanying vegetables. Our hands flutter apart.

"My mother wants you to paint Edward's portrait," Floyd says, "She gave me this."

He folds a card into my hands. Opening the monogrammed paper, a photo slips out. The photo is of Edward, his godly good looks radiating. Also inside the note is a blank check in Genevieve's name. Floyd eyes the check as if surprised by it.

"Tell her thank you, but I can't accept this," I say, giving the check back to him, "I'll do this portrait in memory of Edward."

"I will," Floyd responds, pocketing the check.

"Is this why you joined me at my table?"

"That and to thank you for your strength last night. I am indebted to you," He smiles beautifully at me. The room shrinks down to the two of us, stuffy and inescapable. I don't know how to react to Floyd Lawton, nearly as handsome as his brother and twice as charming.

"No need to thank me," I say quietly, "Anyone would have tried to help."

"But you were there," he says, staring into my eyes.

A distinctly uncomfortable silence spans a few minutes as we sit frozen. He appears to be trying to communicate with me using only his eyes, sending a message that I'm completely unable to comprehend.

"That reminds me!" I exclaim, breaking the eye contact nervously and reaching for my sketchbook bag, "I have something for you."

I push package across the table.

"A package?" Floyd asks, starting to rip open the envelope.

"Jacob Feely gave it to me and ordered me to deliver it. At knifepoint."

"I'm sorry. I have no idea what could possibly…" Floyd trails off as he opens the envelope and sees what is inside.

"What did he give you?" I ask, leaning closer.

"A letter," Floyd says, "I'll read it later."

"Can you tell me what it says? Feely risked a lot to get that to me."

"The letter is addressed to my father. You may ask him to read it if you wish," Floyd tells me.

"Never mind," I say, smiling as casually as I can manage, "I was just curious."

"I'm sure the letter is nothing but a lunatic's rambling."

He stands and gestures to the note he gave me, "Next time Bruce fails to show up, give me a call and I promise to entertain you."

Floyd gracefully leans down to kiss my hand, and leaves as swiftly as he came.

The last thing in the note is a business card with Floyd's number on it. My face feels flushed again, and I stand up to search for the bathroom. On the other side of the potted plant Rachel stares at Floyd's retreating back. She sees me get up and immediately turns back to her date with a superior expression. Changing my mind I snatch up my bag and walk out the door, a few minutes behind Floyd. I have a sudden urge to go to an art store. The restaurant can put the bill on Bruce's tab.

"Lucky you brought the limo," I say to Alfred as he helps me maneuver two six feet tall wooden stretchers back out of the car. The two of us drove all over Gotham searching for an open art store while we waited for Bruce to finish his nightly outing. I have no idea how we got the stretchers into the car in the first place. Back at the bunker, the heavy planks of wood are proving extremely difficult to get out again.

"Quite lucky," Alfred responds.

I catch him wincing as I smack a stretcher against the interior of the limo for the second time.

"Sorry," I cringe.

"Not to worry. Master Wayne has caused worse dents, Miss Pearl."

"Somehow, that fails to surprise me."

I manage to get a chuckle out of Alfred.

"Do you think he'll mind if I set up a painting station in the bunker?" I ask.

"I wouldn't presume to know."

"The bunker would be an ideal location. No need to set up tarps, or worry about paint getting on things. And the lighting is quite…thorough," I continue, "An easel would only take up a little space in a corner. It would be a shame to waste all that room. A few electronics and a medical station take up less than half the space."

"Might I suggest putting everything up and seeing if he notices?" Alfred asks.

"I think I will. Have you ever stretched a canvas before, Alfred?"

"Can't say that I have, Miss Pearl."

"Excellent," I say, grinning.

Shaking under the weight, we dump the stretchers in the container and rest while the lift takes us down.

"Thank you, Alfred," I add in between gasping for air, "For helping me find the painting supplies, and for driving me everywhere the past couple days, and for all the support. I can see why Bruce speaks so highly of you."

Alfred pauses for breath, although he is surprisingly only slightly more winded than I am.

"Lynnet, I pushed Bruce to cultivate a social life, to be active, and to be visible in his father's company - all in the hope that he might discover a penchant for having fun occasionally," Alfred admits, a weary sincerity in his voice, "Out of all my attempts, never did I expect an overlooked archivist to become the one person who manages to break Bruce's façade and force him to be happy for a few minutes out of his life. You are as stubborn, and as obstinate as he is. Which I suspect is exactly what he needs. I should be thanking you."

The rarity of Alfred's tact disappearing for a single paragraph, as well as the rarity of him calling me by my first name, stuns me into silence. The rattling of the lift as it stops shakes me to my senses.

"I think, Bruce and I may be good influences on each other," I say.

"You are quite right, as usual," Alfred replies, grinning.

By the time Bruce returns to the bunker, Alfred and I have successfully stretched a new canvas and set up an easel.

"And now the crime fighting headquarters becomes an art studio," Bruce comments dryly, pulling off his cowl.

"It takes up less space than the occasional putting green," I argue, throwing a glance at Alfred.

"I wouldn't have any idea what you mean, Miss Pearl," Alfred says, helping Bruce with the rest of the suit.

"At least something productive is being done here," Bruce says, collapsing into a chair.

"And it is a relief to not be stitching up another open wound right now," I say, "If things remain relatively tame you might not even need me anymore."

"Feely must have gone underground," Bruce continues, ignoring my comment, "And not through the mob. He's hiding from them as much as the police. And the bank robber they call the joker has hit two more mob banks."

"They must be working together then," I say.

"No," Bruce counters, "The bank robber does it the old fashioned way. No fancy electronics of Feely's caliber."

"And yet, the bank robber, who considers himself a joker, helped Feely escape from Arkham. I highly doubt he did that out of the kindness of his heart."

"If they are working together, whatever they are working on, they haven't done it yet," Bruce says, sighing.

"Perhaps they will donate all the money they have stolen to repair the children's museum."

Bruce chuckles despite his frustration, "No they'll leave that up to me. Bruce Wayne has already sent his condolences and a sizeable check to the museum's director."

"How generous of Bruce Wayne," I say.

I prop my canvas up against the wall and pull out a bucket of special gesso. Dipping my largest brush into the white mixture I cover the canvas, testing occasionally to check the thickness. Once I finish I lug a lamp over and tilt it so I can see the shine.

"What are you doing?" Bruce asks, looking down his nose at me from his chair.

"I convinced Mr. Fox that developing a fast drying gesso was essential to Wayne Enterprises' new line of products. I'm testing it out. Watching gesso dry has never been so fascinating. Look, the shine has disappeared completely from that corner already!"

Bruce sits on the floor next to me so he can witness the excitement.

"I see no difference," he comments.

"Which explains why you are the one flying over Gotham in a bat suit, and I'm the artist," I poke the canvas with a finger and hold my hand up in front of Bruce's face to prove no gesso rubbed off, "See? Perfectly dry. Normally it takes hours."

Before I can stop him, Bruce does the same. Except, not being an artist, he unknowingly puts his hand in a wet patch. I can't help but laugh. In response Bruce taps my nose, leaving a gesso smear. I sputter with surprise and am about to get him back good with the large paintbrush when Alfred comes up behind us with refreshments. He clears his throat loudly, causing both Bruce and I to swivel around in the manner of guilty kids caught in a food fight.

I clear my throat. "You'll want to be careful and go wash your hands," I warn Bruce, catching his hand before he wipes the gesso off on his suit, "Gesso is nearly impossible to get out of clothing. Trust me, I have plenty of experience."

"No stain can survive Alfred's cleaning," Bruce protests.

"I enjoy the challenge, Master Wayne," Alfred agrees.

"Nevertheless, even Alfred has yet to brave the enormous task of washing white gesso off a black suit. I recommend we try to keep it that way," I say.

In compliance, Bruce instead wipes the gesso off on a napkin.

"Your injuries seem to be minimal after the day's events," Bruce comments, studying me intently over his glass of orange juice.

"Surprisingly, yes. The dirt was the worst of it."

"I don't know what you were thinking, running through the explosions. Even though the blasts were small," Bruce says darkly, his expression turning serious.

"You did the same," I counter.

"I was wearing Kevlar."

"The run was no more difficult than dodging the kids in the Children's section of the library to reach Rose. The trick is anticipating where the next attack will hit. Whether the strike is a bomb or a fluffy pink rabbit."

"You've been hit with a fluffy pink rabbit?" Bruce asks. I detect the hint of a smile creeping over his face again.

"Multiple times. The plastic nose hurts the worst, but the whiskers can poke your eyes. Rose uses the bunny when she reads the Max books to kids," I explain, "Speaking of the children's museum, Feely witnessed the entire disaster."

"Feely was there?"

I nod, "He came up to me with a knife after you left. Told me the bomb in the maze had never been rigged to go off, and insinuated that the entire plan had been a trick to get Batman out in the open. He mentioned something about his partner."

"To get Batman?"

"Yes. And to give me an envelope intended for Floyd Lawton."

"What does he want with Floyd?"

"Which brings me to the other thing, I had an unexpected guest at dinner tonight."

I describe the conversation I had with Floyd and show Bruce the note Floyd gave me from his mother. Bruce show's no reaction, his face frozen in a sort of concentrated grimace.

"Did you look inside the envelope?" he asks when I'm done.

My eyebrows shoot up.

"No, I thought Floyd was your friend."

"He is."

"Normally, people trust friends."

"Not in Gotham."

"Well, being unaware of your habit of spying on friends' personal documents, I gave Floyd the envelope still sealed and assumed the contents probably involved his father rather than him."

"From what you said, it sounds like Floyd's reaction confirms that suspicion."

"Of course, we can't trust him to tell the truth…"

Now it's Bruce's turn to raise an eyebrow.

"I think we can take his word," Bruce argues.

"Oh, so we can trust his word, but can't trust him to admit consorting with criminals such as Feely."

"I thought you disliked Floyd?"

"I never said that," I protest a little too quickly in an attempt to hide my embarrassment, "Maybe he annoyed me a bit in the beginning of our acquaintance. I suppose I misjudged him."

"And after one dinner, your feelings are changed?" Bruce asks with a rather unfathomable expression on his face.

"Perhaps, I'm feeling more kindly to him after realizing the caliber of your friendship. And only last night he watched his brother, who you say Floyd idolized, get shot, or commit suicide, or whatever happened. That's a lot to go through. You should know."

I sit completely still, waiting for Bruce's response and readying another defense. The two of us might have gone on staring each other down for the whole night. Instead, after a length of awkward silence, comprehension flickers across Bruce's face.

"You say Floyd saw his brother die," Bruce begins to say, "What makes you so sure of that?"

"He was in the room when it happened…" I trail off, trying to remember the night before. Everything remains somewhat of a confused blur. The focal point being George Lawton stepping through the canvas and coming at Genevieve and me with a knife.

"Actually, I'm not certain," I continue, "I can't imagine Floyd standing by and letting his father attack his mother. I got the impression Floyd hated his father."

Bruce nods, encouraging my speculation.

"Then, why would he abandon me to defend Genevieve?" I wonder out loud.

"Exactly."

"So, if he wasn't in the living room, when did he leave? And what was he doing?"

"The envelope?"

"I guess you were right not to trust him," I admit glumly.

"Or the explanation for Floyd's absence will prove to mean something else entirely."

"Could you convince Floyd to confide in you, as a friend?" I ask Bruce.

"I could. Or…" Bruce pulls out Floyd's business card that had been slipped into Genevieve's note, "You could talk with him."

I take the card brusquely and stare Bruce down for a couple more minutes.

"I suppose I need to update him on the progress of his brother's portrait," I say. I try to put a challenge to Bruce behind the words. Let him display at least some reluctance to seeing his public girlfriend go out on what would probably amount to a date with Floyd Lawton.

"I suppose you do," is all Bruce says.

He gets up, still looking unperturbed, but also as if he is trying very hard to remain so. I'm left sitting on the floor alone with my drying gesso, confused and wondering where the conversation went wrong. I refuse to leave when Alfred and Bruce go back to the penthouse, claiming a determination to time the gesso drying exactly. After the two men have left, I make sure my alarm is set early enough to give me time to get ready the next morning, just in case I oversleep. Then I pull out my sketchbook to practice drawing Edward Lawton, and settle in for a long night.


	24. Week 3:Sunday

A/N: One question that keeps coming up in reviews is what Lyn looks like. I left out a very specific description of her to leave people free to make up their own versions (which, if anyone wants to give me names or photos of actresses, I'd be really curious to see them). But, I have thought about who could have played Lyn in the movies, so I'm posting some images of actresses on my tumblr (link on profile) for the curious. I also may have had some fun with photoshop and screenshots.

Now I'm off to crash at a friend's in New York for a week! First break from work I've had since winter! I'll start writing the next chapter and responding to reviews while I'm stuck in the dreadfully dull Pittsburgh airport to make the time go faster. Chapters keep getting longer, and my real job is getting busier, which is why my update schedule is around two weeks.

23: Sunday

Waking up to a blaring cell phone alarm is never fun. Waking up sprawled across a cement floor, using a sketchbook as a pillow, and realizing the smudged lines on the paper undoubtedly translate to trailing smears of pencil across my face, is even worse. As a last kick in the pants, my careful time mark on my sketchbook announcing when the gesso on the canvas was completely dry is now a blurry abstract pattern. I can't even remember being conscious enough to write, let alone remember what time I did it.

Somehow, despite seriously aching joints, I manage to pull myself up and stumble over to the disguise bin. Even more amazing, I manage to find a pair of church appropriate pants and jacket. After washing my face and attempting to tame the morning's bird's nest on my head, I borrow Bruce's motorcycle. If I have to get up this early to go to church and investigate threats being sent to a cardinal, at least me go in style. Before leaving I call Eleanor to confirm the time.

Eleanor answers the phone in a very annoyed voice, "Lynnet, why in the world are you calling so early?"

"Church?" I ask, confused.

"No, dear," she says, laughing, "I attend evening Mass."

"Evening Mass?" I repeat dumbly.

"Of course. I'm retired, darling. I haven't gotten up before ten in years."

"Okay, I'll see you tonight then," I stutter, feeling foolish.

"Go back to sleep now," Eleanor says, and hangs up, probably following her own advice.

Unfortunately, the process of getting dressed woke me up too much to let me fall asleep on my sketchbook again. Instead I drag out my paint box and set up a palette. Blocking in the base colors for Edward's portrait takes me under an hour. I lay down the lights and darks within two hours. By the time I start to delve into the mid tones and details, the floor rumbles and the ceiling starts to descend. I decide to ignore the lowering lift. Then a shadow falls over my painting, forcing me to stop my work.

"Yes?" I ask without taking my eyes off the complicated mix of colors in Edward's skin.

"Were you up all night painting?" Bruce asks curiously.

"Were you up all night crime fighting?"

"No," Bruce announces, sounding proud, "I slept five hours last night."

"Isn't the minimum amount of necessary sleep eight hours?"

"I make up for the other three during business meetings."

"Perhaps you can tape them for me," I say, putting a highlight in Edward's golden curls, "Though I doubt even the most boring of speeches could put me to sleep. Oh well, plenty of time to sleep when one's dead." I take a step back to assess my painting and remember whom I'm painting. The morbid fatality of that saying drains any pleasure I might derive from my success at capturing Edward's likeness.

Bruce raises his eye brows.

"I didn't spend all night painting," I say in defense, "I started this morning. Edward's portrait is going fairly quickly. He was such a handsome man; his face is a joy to paint. And tragic."

"Handsome?" Bruce asks, lightly plucking the photo out of my hands.

"Yes, as if I'm painting a Greek statue. He has the long, aquiline nose and strong jaw with a double pointed chin," I describe, pointing out the features.

"Fairly average features. Nothing stands out to me," Bruce says and hands the photo back. He saunters over to his computer and turns it on.

"Whatever you say, I find him beautiful. And it's a lot easier to stay focused while painting someone fascinatingly gorgeous," I argue, adding a dab of light to Edward's eyes. The same eyes I glimpsed staring blankly into space. I shiver. There are other reasons I feel compelled to continue painting. "I hardly knew the man," I add, "Yet every time I see his face and actually look at the picture instead of seeing a dab of color here, or a contour there, I get a prick of sorrow. Like a slap in the face asking who am I to be enjoying life when someone else's was cut so short. It's a strange, paradoxical guilt."

"I know the feeling," Bruce admits darkly from his corner.

We both stare at the painting. Our quiet contemplation is broken by Bruce clearing his throat.

"This discussion reminds me of a few decorating conflicts in my penthouse," Bruce says, attempting to change the subject, "Namely, the large, blank wall in the main room. Alfred's hand picked designer decided modern art was stylish. I disagreed. I'll need to find a way to fill it. " He grins at me mischievously.

I glance up at him from under my eyebrows, "Are you requesting to be next on my commission list?"

"I was hoping for a token of our friendship."

"In your dreams," I scoff, laughing, "Even at this point, Edward's portrait will easily take ten more hours. I'm not investing that much time and effort into feeding Bruce Wayne's ego."

Bruce smiles and casually leans back in his chair, striking a pose worthy of the Prince of Gotham. "You know, the tabloids claim most women find me incredibly attractive."

"And eternally modest too."

"Surely providing me with aggrandizing proof of my social status would be a joy for you," he says, stealing my own words from me. His gleaming smirk blinds me from across the room.

"Bruce, the most attractive person on earth could come to me begging for a free painting, and I still wouldn't do it on principle."

"Are you saying I'm not the most attractive person on earth?" Bruce asks, looking wounded, "I guess it has been seven years since I won sexiest man alive. I should add that title to my playboy repertoire. Does one campaign for these types of things?"

"I believe you're doing a good enough job already," I tell him, "Were you really voted sexiest man alive before you disappeared?"

"Alfred attributes the allure to my mysterious and wounded aura."

I stare at him. "You must have been a terror as an adolescent."

"I'm sure Alfred would be more than happy to share the horror stories with you."

I laugh, surprised at his admission. Throwing him a lazy smile, I announce, "Bruce, you would be fascinating to paint even without your pretty face."

His serious expression fades as he turns to stare at me hopefully.

"But I'm still not painting that face for free," I add.

He chuckles, smiling at me.

"So, will you be painting all day?" Bruce asks.

"No," I say, setting down my brush, "In fact, I'm supposed to meet Teresa at one. Originally, we planned around Sunday morning Mass, which I was supposed to attend with Eleanor. But, apparently, Eleanor doesn't get up that early. I put the extra time to good use by painting."

"I wasn't aware you were a churchgoer," Bruce comments with surprise.

"I'm not, but Eleanor's avid. I can respect religion without actively participating in it. And Cardinal O'Fallon is being threatened by someone who is connected with the homeless. If the threats are genuine, it must be the scarecrow. I may not be Catholic, but no one threatens a cardinal and gets away with it."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want you to worry," I say, shrugging, "I'm bringing a few vials of antidote. If Crane tries anything, I'll be ready. Besides, you have bigger criminals to catch like Feely and the entire mob."

"I'll be there tonight," Bruce says, his voice offering me no chance at persuading him differently.

"And I'm guessing, you don't mean as Bruce Wayne," I say, eyes twinkling.

He snorts laughter.

"Thank you for offering," I say, "That would mean a lot to Eleanor. She might actually approve of you for once."

After smearing the bits of excess paint across my palette to make sure it doesn't dry in clumps, I get up and start to wash the acrylics off my brushes. Coming over to Bruce I notice him attacking a dark gray expanse of fabric with a needle and thread.

"What are you doing?" I ask, leaning over his shoulder for a better look.

"Mending my suit. The buttons popped off."

"Dare I ask how it got ruined in the first place?"

"Swimming."

"I see. You're sewing the button hole the way you sew up wounds: very poorly. The extra force behind every stab of your needle is entirely unnecessary."

"Show me." He hands me the jacket.

"Want me to do it for you?" I offer, demonstrating a couple neat stitches.

"No," he says and takes the suit back, "I find it relaxing."

"Why go through all this effort when you can buy a new one?"

"The buttons are special," he responds, showing me the Wayne family crest embossed on the gold button.

"Then why not let Alfred help you?"

"I told you, I find it relaxing. I plan on wearing the suit to our dinner with Ron Marshall on Tuesday," he says, glancing up at me briefly.

"We have a dinner with Ron Marshall on Tuesday?" I ask.

"Yes, I believe he intends to invite me to a Golf Tournament benefiting his fund to build a new homeless shelter. I need to look impressive."

"That's two days away."

"And there are three buttons," Bruce says, gesturing to the other two waiting patiently on the desk next to him. He rips out his latest stitch and makes another attempt. I watch him repeat this five times, itching to take over the task. Instead, I force myself to walk away, slip on my leather jacket and pick up my helmet.

"I hope you don't mind if I take the motorcycle to Teresa's protest," I say.

"Go ahead," Bruce replies, taking a break from the sewing and turning back to his computer. I'm about to leave when he stops me, "Wait. How would your friend react if I came along?"

"That depends," I say mockingly, "Would you be coming as Bruce Wayne or Larry?"

"I think she would see through any disguise I tried now. But I'm curious about some police reports I've been reading in the past week. At least six instances of people disappearing without a trace. Only one, the abduction of a wealthy woman, was high profile. Larraine Goldberg, a socialite who devotes her charitable time to organizing homeless shelters."

"I see."

"The police presume all of them are dead, and are doing nothing."

"Good thing Batman doesn't answer to the police then," I say, grinning, "Do you want to drive?" I offer him control of the bike.

He pulls his leather jacket over his jeans and t-shirt and shakes his head, "No. You need the practice."

"I think I've been making enormous progress," I counter.

"You almost dropped the bike yesterday."

"How did you have time or the attention to notice that?" I ask, and then laugh it off, "I guess I'm no expert yet."

Expert or not, I manage to get us both to the site of Teresa's demonstration in one piece. The dirty ground already cleared by Marshall's wrecking balls buzzes with activity, not of construction workers, but of activists. A dozen tents ring a center fire pit with two dozen more in the process of being set up.

"Lyn! I'm glad you came," Teresa calls out, waving energetically from the largest tent in the middle. She makes her way over to us. Her wide smile falters slightly when she catches sight of Bruce. "Wayne, what a surprise," she says, shaking his hand, dismissing him, and immediately directing all her attention to me, "Come on I'll show you around!"

Bruce, with his trademark smirk and his eyes dancing in amusement, slips his hand into mine as we walk. Teresa notices his gesture and rolls her eyes at me.

"We have our main tent in the center, and the fire pit where we will hold daily meetings," Teresa says, pointing out the different spots while waving at various members of the grassroots community.

I pull Bruce closer and whisper sideways at him, "I suspect you secretly enjoy provoking Teresa's disapproval of our relationship."

He just smiles.

"Right now there are over 60 people planning on staying here for the week," Teresa continues without hearing me, "A good number. We'll be hard to ignore."

"What stops Marshall from shutting you down?" Bruce asks.

Teresa laughs, "For once the Gotham City Police Department's tendency for slow response times will be useful. We'll be left alone for at least a couple of days. Hopefully, after that our protest will generate enough controversy, the publicity will be able to keep Marshall from forcibly evicting us. He can threaten us with boastful speeches all he wants, we're not moving until he gets something in writing."

"Why not set up a tent city in an already approved area, such as Cardinal O'Fallon's church grounds?" Bruce asks casually, painstakingly avoiding a particularly muddy patch of dirt. The billionaire playboy can't sully his expensive, designer shoes. I nearly giggle, remembering the hours Alfred spends polishing the grime covered batsuit every night. If Bruce had his way, the suit would be coated in hardened mud, but Alfred always insists.

"The temporary tent cities Cardinal O'Fallon and other churches around Gotham set up can house maybe one tenth of the homeless population at any given time," Teresa explains, "The homeless shelter Marshall seeks to demolish currently houses over 400 people, a much larger contribution. He promises to build a bigger, better shelter, but his record says otherwise. This community, made up of displaced, poverty stricken people in addition to activists, is intended to be temporary.

"Aren't there dangers associated with protesting in…" Bruce fakes a hesitant disgust, "tents, in the heart of Gotham?"

"Of course," Teresa states, matter of fact, "I wouldn't recommend you attempt it. But some of us are willing to take risks for a cause we believe in." Her superior tone is unmistakable. "Unfortunately," she continues, "Six activists and countless numbers of homeless have disappeared in the past week during our planning stages. Yet we refuse to give in to those who terrorize us, and hope that our larger group will dissuade any more disappearances."

"How do these people disappear?" I ask.

"They simply never come home," Teresa says with a haunted sorrow behind her eyes, "It happens every day in this part of town, but lately more often than not."

"And how do you expect to prevent it from happening in this camp?" Bruce asks.

"Hope?" Teresa says wearily, "And not going out alone at night. Pretty much all we can do."

The three of us make it back to the center fire pit. Some enterprising group of people lashed together scrap wires and aluminum cans to create a full chess set. Each oversized piece stands about knee height. The board, marked with cardboard cutouts, spans a large portion of the ground. Sitting on a log, attaching the last pieces to a very elaborate and bright red King piece is Bob.

"We're starting a chess tournament," a woman says, coming up to Teresa with a list, "Would you like to sign up?"

"Maybe later," Teresa says, grinning.

"I'll watch," Bruce announces, claiming a spot on the log next to Bob. Before he sits he makes sure to position a stray plastic bag to cover the bark. The people, sitting around on various scraps of cement blocks, lumber, and plastic chairs in various stages of cleanliness, welcome him to their group warily.

Meanwhile, Teresa and I wander off to the edge of the camp.

"I think your boyfriend brings out the worst in me," Teresa says.

"He does that," I reply.

"I'm afraid I was bluffing a bit back there, by the way," she adds, the good humor dropping from her face, "The truth is people are terrified. We were supposed to have over 100 people at this protest. The disappearances kept a number of activists away. The homeless here, they feel they have nothing to lose. After all, the only other protection would be from shelters, and the shelters are full to capacity thanks to the danger on the streets. And I can do nothing except keep a smile on my face, appear strong for the others, and pray they don't come after me next."

"I'm sorry," I tell her, wishing I could say more.

"There was an investigation when Ms. Goldberg went missing. A brief one, and probably pointless, but at least they tried. When I reported one of my friends, who also happened to be between homes at the time, as missing…they just laughed." She sighs, picking up a stray piece of litter on the ground outside the camp boundary. I can see the small scrap of metal glint in the sunlight. Teresa smiles fondly, "Perhaps Batman will save them," and hands me the litter. I turn the bat-shaped fighting star around in the palm of my hand.

"I'm sure he's trying," I promise.

Teresa chuckles, "Because you have a close, personal relationship with the man and know his plans." She grins, takes the fighting star back, and pockets it carefully.

I cough up laughter, thinking about Bruce.

Teresa slaps my back to help me clear my throat, "I'm teasing, Lyn. We all know the Batman works alone."

"I was just guessing."

"Let's hope your guess is good. I need all the help I can get," she says. A rousing chorus of laughter comes from the middle of camp. Bruce appears to be entertaining the chess audience with a story involving the use of a beer can, a lighter, and the fire pit. Teresa rolls her eyes again, but this time her look is grudgingly approving, "Except his. He annoys me."

"Give him a chance. Maybe he'll improve on further acquaintance," I insist.

Bruce chooses that moment to exclaim loudly, "And on my birthday too!"

I wince, "I think he's telling everyone about the night of his birthday party."

"Yes, I read about that in the papers," Teresa says.

"Not exactly the most sensitive subject to talk about in a tent city," I say, "Though everyone seems to be getting along."

"Because they're not laughing with him, they're laughing at him, a pampered man, whose sole connection to the homeless is that he burned his home down in a drunken stupor." She laughs despite herself, "I'll give him some credit though. As far as I can tell, he treats everyone the same. Ron Marshall would never deign to come down here and associate with us."

"So, a spoiled idiot, but a lovable one?" I joke, grinning.

Teresa cracks up, "Endearing, maybe. Only you could find him lovable."

We rejoin the main group. I start to sit down on the log next to Bruce, but he pulls me into his lap.

"This is my girlfriend, Lyn," Bruce says, introducing me as if I was some prize to be won. I kick him gently in the ankle, but smile at the people surrounding us. Bruce ignores my judgment and snakes an arm around my waist, "I was regaling my new friends here with a cautionary tale. You remember the night of my birthday bash, don't you? Of course, my butler had to fill me in on the evening events. Can't remember a thing!"

"I remember," I say, forcing a grin.

"I must say kid, I've done some crazy things before my days at AA, but burning your own mansion down…that takes the cake!" a man says, chuckling and raising a soda to Bruce.

"I learned my lesson," Bruce says with a smirk.

The conversation splits off into smaller groups. Teresa eyes the two of us while she talks with another man from the camp. Bruce leans in close to me. I can feel his breath on the back of my neck. The effect is rather distracting.

"See the man Teresa's talking to?" he asks, whispering into my ear while smiling as if we were having an intimate conversation, "I've been baiting him while you two were talking. He's an informant for Marshall, probably attempting to sabotage the protest from the inside."

All distracting thoughts fly from my head. I settle back into Bruce's chest, effectively cutting us out of the group discussions. "Let me warn her before we leave," I say with concern, "I can pretend I saw him with Marshall or something."

He nods, "I think you should visit frequently in the next week. Keep an eye on things for me."

"And you will be investigating the disappearances, right?"

"Starting tonight."

"Good."

He takes a breath and shifts under my weight. "Now, if you could kindly stand up. The log is cutting off circulation in my leg," he requests, grinning teasingly.

I comply and take his hand to help him up.

"Well, Teresa," I address her, "We should get going. But thank you for showing us around."

"So soon?" Teresa asks, walking over to the edge of camp with us.

"Sorry, but I have another appointment with Eleanor," I explain. I take her arm and pull her off to the side, "And, just to warn you, I saw that man you were talking to with Marshall one day. He might try to cause trouble."

"Seriously?" Teresa's eyes go wide, "I suspected something was off about him, but I never suspected that. Thank you. I'll be watching him closely."

"Good luck," I tell her, "with everything. And stay safe."

"I'll try," she raises her voice to include Bruce in the conversation, "I'm glad you could take time out of your busy schedule to stop by, Wayne. It was nice to see you again."

"Well, after coming here I find I'm inspired to support your worthy cause financially," Bruce interjects, smiling majestically at Teresa while shaking her hand, "You can expect a sizeable donation soon."

"Thank you," Teresa says, genuinely smiling at him for the first time today.

"We'll be back again!" I promise.

After waving goodbye I turn to Bruce and toss a helmet at him. "So, where are we going next? I have," I check my phone, "Two hours before evening Mass."

"Back to the bunker?" he requests, his eyes gleaming with humor, "I need to get dressed for church."

"Yes, your black suit would be especially appropriate," I agree.

Two hours later, Eleanor's face when she sees me pull up to St. James Cathedral on a motorcycle is priceless. Nevertheless, she ushers me into the church, explaining that she snagged us first row seats just in case. I'm uncertain what Eleanor expects me to do if someone proves good on their threats to the cardinal. The only useful thing I could do in the front row is fling myself in front of the cardinal to block whatever attack might happen. Or jump up, jab a needle in his arm, and administer the antidote to Crane's fear toxin. I spend the first ten minutes of church agonizing over which option would draw the least unwanted attention.

Sitting in the pew for over two hours, my hand itches to draw, but this time I keep my temptations in check. Beside me Eleanor acts the perfect churchgoer, as per usual. She stands and sits, and sits and stands, and takes in every word cardinal O'Fallon utters. After spending the night on concrete, my back and knees complain every time I shift uncomfortably in the seat. I may be half Eleanor's age, but I feel twice it. Thankfully, those not baptized are not expected to do a lot in a Catholic church except sit there and appear repentant. My one enjoyment comes from listening to the hymns. If I were not blessed with the singing voice of a dying cat, I would gladly join in.

Meanwhile, I try to focus on my reason for being there. As of yet, no assassins or abductors have made any moves to get rid of O'Fallon. Of course, I probably would not be able to recognize an assassination attempt prior to it happening in the first place. I'm comforted knowing Batman lurks somewhere among the gothic architecture outside.

"Lynnet, time to go," Eleanor says, patting me on the shoulder.

I shake myself out of a daze. We're the last churchgoers to leave.

"Already?," I ask, feeling embarrassed to be caught lost in thought.

"Somehow I don't think daydreaming will help save the cardinal's life," Eleanor remarks snidely.

"And I don't think that was a very church-going sort of thing to say," I argue and lead the way out.

Eleanor catches up to me and slips her arm through mine. To all casual observers, I'm sure we appeared to be a darling granddaughter and grandmother strolling along, chatting amiably. We nearly make it out the church when O'Fallon appears in front of the doors, wearing a huge grin.

"Eleanor! It's always so pleasant to see you here every week," he says, "I don't believe I've met your granddaughter."

"Lynnet Pearl," I say, shaking his hand, "Pleased to meet you."

Cardinal O'Fallon begins to say something more, but something behind Eleanor and I catches his attention. His eyes go wide, and his hands clutch the cross around his neck, mouthing a silent prayer.

I spin around, prepared to defend Eleanor with whatever I can. Charging down the isle is the most bizarre manlike beast I have ever seen. My brain stubbornly tries to classify it under something familiar and the closest thing I can come up with is reptile.

"Run!" I yell, giving the cardinal a gently shove towards the door. I watch him stumble on his way to safety before turning back to the crocodile. Time slows to a crawl and every bound brings the creature closer and closer to us. With minutes to spare, Eleanor dumps something large and heavy into my arms. I recognize the book as her large print Bible.

"What am I supposed to do with this?" I stutter.

"Hold it. That Bible has been steadfast in my family for over three generations," Eleanor hisses, rooting through her purse to find something.

"I hope you have mace in there," I comment, desperately.

"You, my dear, are useless sometimes," Eleanor says, sinking into a karate stance. She whips out a pair of solid metal, size 50 circular knitting needles and swings them around her head like nun-chucks. My sluggish, sleep-deprived brain slowly starts to comprehend what she is preparing to do.

Seconds later the creature lunges at us, mouth gaping wide and revealing knife-sharp, pointed fangs.

"Eleanor, don't!" I yell out, trying to snatch at her sleeve.

Eleanor shoves me out of the creature's path and into a pew aisle, knocking my head against a wooden bench. Twisting around, I watch in horror as the creature leaps towards the spot where Eleanor waits with two knitting needles, sharp as the crocodile's teeth and aimed directly at its head. At the last second, Eleanor, swinging her nun-chucks, sidesteps into an aisle and throws out a needle. The needle wraps itself around the crocodile's head. Eleanor catches the flying needle and pulls the cord tight. The creature lands hard on the stone floor, its claws flailing desperately to find a grip. Eyes widening, Eleanor keeps her choke hold on the knitting needles, but the creature is too strong. The cord becomes embedded in the fleshy scales of its neck. Before it can shake Eleanor off, and pull Eleanor's arms out of their sockets, a billowing black triangle soars down from the rafters, swoops up Eleanor, and whisks her away to safety.

Relieved, I scramble to my feet, my vision still spinning from the bump on the head, and face the crocodile. The creature doesn't even notice me. I look to the right to find Cardinal O'Fallon swinging at the creature's head with the incense. Clearly he did not listen to my suggestion to run.

Using the cardinal's distraction, I throw myself on the crocodile's back, grabbing hold of Eleanor's knitting needles still attached to the neck. For a split second the creature makes eye contact with me. The distinctly human eyes are wild with fear. Somehow, I manage to stab one of those dark green eyes before the crocodile sends me flying into another pew. Eleanor's bible almost crushes my back, but I snatch it out of the way in time. The creature advances on O'Fallon. O'Fallon takes his chance and smacks the creature's head with the incense.

Undeterred by a small metal ball emitting smoke, the creature heaves O'Fallon over its slimy back. It turns briefly to roar at Batman's charging shape, coming from the opposite direction. Then the creature is gone, bounding back down the aisle and disappearing through the door it came out of. I dash after it, amazed at its inhuman speed.

The last thing I hear before I follow the creature through the door is Eleanor yelling after Batman, "Saving me won't change my disapproval of your clandestine relationship with my granddaughter!"

Behind the door the crocodile disappeared into I find the passage leading to the basement of the church. I clatter down the stone stairs, hearing a second set of footsteps behind me. The lanterns along the hallway flicker before going out and throwing me into darkness. Reaching out towards the wall, I feel a strange slimy substance covering the stone. The crocodile must be leaving a trail. Thankfully, the trail is easy to follow, leading me through darkened crypts, with only the occasional light.

"Alfred says the police and Gordon are already outside," Bruce's voice comes from somewhere in the darkness behind me.

"Do you think they'll try to get involved?" I ask, continuing to walk while running my hand along the slime covered stones for guidance.

"I'll take care of Gordon. Meet me in the old subway stop along here. Bob will be there," Bruce says.

"I hope you're version of 'taking care of' is different than the mob's version," I joke, but get no response. He disappeared as silently as he appeared.

Assuming Bruce went to find Gordon, I start to run. After agonizing minutes of running, and realizing I might want to get back into shape if I'm going to be doing more of this, I see a warm glow in front of me, and a cold draft flows through the tunnel.

"Bob!" I call out, jogging up to him.

"Hello," he says curtly and warms his hands over a barrel.

"Has the bat come by?" I ask, searching in the shadows.

"Not yet," he says.

As if I called him to us by using his name, Batman runs out of the tunnel I came through.

"Gordon is in the air with a helicopter, ready to rescue O'Fallon after I find him," Batman growls at me. He turns to Bob.

"Have you seen a creature go past?" he asks.

"I did. A few minutes ago. Had a old fellow with em."

"Know where could it be going?"

"To the lair. That way, through the subway, into the sewers on the right, past the sewer junction, and straight on until hit the cavern."

"Thanks," Batman says curtly. He turns to go, but then pauses and stares at me.

"Go back," he says.

"What?" I exclaim, "What is the point of all that training, if you're just going to send me back…"

"No arguments. Don't follow me."

Bruce's eye narrows at me through the mask.

I glower at him. But every minute I waste is another minute O'Fallon remains in the clutches of an unknown beast.

"Fine. I won't follow you," I breathe, letting my shoulders slump a little and visibly giving in. I already feel guilty enough for my part in the cardinal's kidnapping.

Batman races off to fight the crocodile.

As soon as he disappears behind the rock entryway of the tunnel, I grin at Bob, my energy returning entirely.

"I don't suppose you know an above ground route to this lair?" I ask.

"Of course. Bob'll show you," Bob says, beckoning me.

He leads me up the steps, but pauses at the top landing.

"Borrow my coat," he says gruffly,

"Okay," I say, playing along and shrugging on the coat.

As we make our way through the outskirts of Gotham, I begin to understand why Bob gave me his coat. The coat, despite the exquisite fabric and stitching, is incredibly tattered and stained, and thankfully disguises my church going clothes. The part of Gotham we are running through resembles a ghost town. Here, wherever here is, the only people are squatters lurking in boarded up doorways of condemned houses. The desolation feels even worse than the crowded squalor of the narrows. I hitch the coat's crooked collar up around my neck and follow Bob blindly.

He stops in front of a manhole and points down.

"Meet the bat at the junction!" he says.

I squat down, desperately wondering how I'm going to pry the manhole open.

"Need help, need help," Bob mutters, turning in circles. After a few rotations he stops and wanders off.

I make a few futile attempts to lift the covering.

"Bar," Bob says, handing me a crowbar.

I wedge it into the space between the metal cover and a pothole in the street, ironically thanking Gotham City for being too poor to repave the roads. Bob joins me in throwing our weight against the bar. To my relief, the cover jolts up and shifts just enough. I shove it out of the way and kneel at the edge of the hole.

"How far down is the sewer exactly?" I ask Bob hesitantly.

"Miles. Yards. Decimeters. Feet. Fingers." he drops down next to me on the cement.

"Thanks."

From somewhere down below I hear a quiet splashing. Then a click echoes up to us and a light turns on. A shadow moves in the darkness. I pull Bob back a little, trying to hide.

"Alfred, there are three junctions. Which do I take?" Bruce's voice drifts up to me, as quiet as a whisper.

I gasp and reflexively start forward.

"Bob, which junction goes to the lair?" I whisper.

"Lair. Lair. The junction on the…" Bob starts.

Before Bob can finish his sentence, a roar blasts from underneath the street. A torch fills the junction with orange light. For a brief second the flame illuminates Batman, and then a pulsing green mass blocks my view. I watch, nearly ready to leap into the sewer, as the crocodile struggles with Batman.

Frustrated at being helpless, I stand up and search around me for anything useful.

"Find something heavy," I instruct Bob.

Unfortunately, the heaviest items on the street are scraps of trash. Plus, I need something small enough that if I miss and hit Batman, I won't do too much damage. I merely want to distract the creature. I crouch back down and my hand brushes against something leathery. I pick up Eleanor's bible. I had forgotten I was carrying the large, extremely heavy tome. No wonder running was so difficult. Down below the crocodile bites into Batman's shoulder and Bruce's howl of pain echoes up to me.

"I'm sorry, Eleanor," I whisper and hold the bible as high above my head as possible. Waiting until the crocodile moves directly beneath the opening is agonizing. But, soon I recognize my moment after the creature recovers from Batman's retaliation. The crocodile raises an arm for a final strike to Batman's head. I let go.

Hearing the satisfactory thud when the bible hits my target bolsters my spirits, but I cringe when I hear the slap of pages against wet concrete. Eleanor will never forgive me. The blow stuns the crocodile long enough for Batman to overpower the creature. Screeching with fear, the crocodile dives into a pile of sludge and disappears through one of the sewers. With his chest shuddering in pain, Batman staggers to the middle of the junction and cranes his neck up at us. He lifts his good arm and shoots a grapple gun through the opening. Bob and I hastily duck away. After a few minutes I hear Bruce's garbled voice.

"Are you coming?" he asks.

Shocked, I nod mutely and pull out one of Eleanor's flowery, embroidered handkerchiefs. She always insists I bring extras to church in case she starts tearing up over the sermon. Rolling one up, I flip it over the cable and ride it down. My antics ruin the handkerchief, but I figure after the bible I'm probably dead to Eleanor anyway.

"Let me see that shoulder," I say, forcing Bruce to stand still.

I pull out a couple more handkerchiefs to create a makeshift bandage. Next to us, Bob swings down on the cable and lands butt first in the squishy sewage. I hand him his coat back.

"Taking lessons from a magician?" Bruce asks me, referring to the handkerchiefs. His eyes glitter from behind the mask.

"My next act will be to make you disappear," I retort automatically, still focused on getting his shoulder to stop bleeding.

"I thought I told you to go back."

"I promised not to follow you. And I didn't. We went above ground," I explain, "Where is the cardinal?"

"Somewhere down one of these tunnels. The crocodile doubled back to attack me."

"Bob knows the way," I say.

"Follow, follow!" Bob says, beckoning again, "Save red bird."

Before leaving I do a quick search for Eleanor's bible. Miraculously, the ancient, bible landed on the one patch of sewer not covered in green slime. I snatch the bible up, dust it off, and lumber after Batman and Bob. Gradually the dark tunnel gives way to a gigantic cavern, well lit with bright fluorescent lamps. I nearly collide with a black shape lurking in the cliff's shadows.

Batman does not react. He continues to scrutinize the scene playing out below us.

"What has the cardinal done, my friends? He's tried to help the homeless and downtrodden," the scarecrow yells, gesturing widely, "But I don't want him to help the homeless. I want you all to come to me." The scarecrow basks in the fearful adoration of his homeless army.

"The fear toxin," batman explains, "Crane is using it against the homeless."

"The homeless are innocent victims in this," I argue, "The crowd could just as easily be a bunch of your trust fund buddies down there. Crane only preys on the downtrodden because they are less protected."

"I know."

"Then you go after Crane and the croc," I tell him, "Bob and I can lead the people away from here to get them out of Crane's toxin."

"Wait for my distraction," Batman says sharply.

He begins to climb the cliff face, keeping to the shadows.

"Who can speak for the holy man?" Crane calls out, laughing.

"I can!" a gruff voice thunders dramatically. I smile at Bruce's heroic posturing.

Batman sweeps his cape out behind him and launches himself into the air. In the blink of an eye he's on top of the scarecrow, wrestling him away from the crowd. Seizing the chance, I make my way to the floor of the underground cavern. The cave wall is sheer, my feet sending pebbles and dirt tumbling down. It doesn't take long for the homeless to notice my descent.

"Bob, help me," I say. Turning to the group, half of whom are still cheering on the now struggling scarecrow, the other half staring at Bob and me out of curiosity.

"How can we get these people out of here?" I ask Bob, looking for a way out other than the tunnel back to the church crypts.

"Subway," Bob says.

"People," I yell out, pitching my voice as loud as possible, "Follow me away, to safety!"

I get no reaction.

Bob begins to cheer, yelling nonsense words while dancing and waving his arms in the direction of another tunnel. Following his lead, I start to jump and scream, pitching my voice as low as possible. The ploy succeeds. The homeless are distracted from the fight between Batman and the scarecrow. However, the mob is not a happy one. They angrily call out for our death as well as the cardinal's. My hands tighten around Eleanor's bible, but I know I'm going to have to give it up if Bob and I are to survive. I snatch up Bob's hand, drop the bible in the middle of the cave, and run.

Before the cavern disappears, I catch sight of batman fighting the scarecrow. Batman starts to win, but the scarecrow manages to slip out of his grasp, covering Batman in the toxin. The crocodile rises up from the swampy mud on the floor of the cavern and lunges at Batman. My heart skips a beat as the crocodile nearly takes Batman's head off his shoulders. I firmly shut my eyes, willing the image out of my mind, and force myself to continue running. Bob and I turn a corner, coming to a junction between our tunnel and the old subway. Behind us, we can here the entire mob on our heels. I falter, unsure of which way to go.

Bob sprints forward to take the lead, pulling me to the right. The farther we get into the tunnel, the clearer the air becomes. Eventually all traces of the toxin are gone. The hostile cries of the mob behind us gradually dissipate. Out of breath, with calves screaming in pain, I stumble to a slower pace. Bob continues to run without looking back. So much for a partner in crime. I continue to drag myself farther, hoping desperately that if the mob does catch up with me, they will no longer be under the influence of Jonathan Crane.

My hunch is confirmed when the mob rushes past me without even noticing my slower pace.

On the next step I take I can feel the earth rumble underneath me. My foot gets caught on a loose rock and I trip, slamming to the ground hard. Now the entire world is shaking from a blast so strong I can feel the heat. I throw myself against the cave wall, watching the empty tunnel behind me. Growls echo off the curved walls, getting closer and closer until finally I can see the charging shape of a half-crocodile, half-man creature coming towards me. I brace myself for the inevitable trampling. In my last moments I wonder whether Batman made it out of the cave before the blast. Surprisingly the crocodile crashes past me, completely oblivious of my presence. Its head is hanging at an odd angle. A trail of dark blood follows it down the passage. I suspect it won't survive the night.

I stand up once more, and force myself to walk, this time in the other direction. Eventually I return to the cave. The place is entirely deserted, with the ground scorched from the explosion in between soggy patches of water from the sewers.

"Batman!" I yell hoarsely

I start to follow a small river of water running into another sewer.

"Batman!" I repeat.

My voice echoes off the walls.

"Batman!"

I cling to the childish belief in an invincible hero.

"Bruce, please answer," I beg.

After exploring every dark corner and pile of sludge, I hear clanking and sloshing coming from farther down the tunnel. A shadow with black pointy ears begins to grow on the sewer wall.

"Batman!" I scream. A new energy surges through me and I run, nearly sliding in the muck trickling through the pipe. I skid to a stop right before I collide with the dark shape in front of me. Trying to support Bruce's weight as he crumples onto my shoulder reminds me of Eleanor trying to stop the croc with a knitting needle. The left side of his torso is a mess of black material, flesh, and blood. He struggles and fights against me. I place a hand over his mouth in an attempt to keep him from crying out. Together we collapse to the ground. He must have been badly hit with Crane's toxin. Belatedly I realize I left the antidote in Eleanor's purse.

"Bruce," I say his name, taking his head in my hands, "Look at me. I'm trying to help you. You've lost a lot of blood."

His eyes meet mine and a vague form of recognition appears. Taking advantage of his distraction I fish out another of Eleanor's handkerchiefs. I resolve to never tease her about her penchant for frilly, colorful scraps of cloth again. As I reach towards his wounded abdomen, Bruce swings his good arm at me. I duck and fling my arms around him. Pinning down his strength is impossible.

"If I don't stop the bleeding, you will die," I plead.

The struggling lessens, but only slightly.

"You can't die like this. Gotham City needs you," I whisper.

The strength starts to fade from his arms but the fear remaining in his eyes hurts me.

"Hang Gotham City, I need you, you idiot. I'm not losing you yet," I insist.

In some nonsensical, desperate attempt to restore him to sanity I place two hands on either side of his mask and pull him into a kiss. Behind it I pour my fear of him being caught in the explosion and every bit of the unrequited love I've been carrying around with me for a while. For a split second I feel him tense up, and then he is kissing me back with equal intensity.

Years from now, I'm sure I will recount this moment as the most awkward kiss of my life. Romance is difficult in the midst of blood, sewage, and the aftereffects of Crane's toxin. Not to mention, the sharp nose of his mask keeps poking me. Still, I break away with reluctance. His eyes meet mine, less cloudy than before. Bruce leans into my shoulder. I pull him even closer in an attempt to support him against the wall. Thankful for the lapse in his movements, I manage to get his wound bandaged as best as possible.

"We need to find a way out of these sewers," I tell myself, hoping in the back of my mind that victims of Crane's toxin remember nothing the next day.

He doesn't speak but he surges upward, clutching his shoulder in pain.

"I suppose that's making progress," I mutter, wrapping an arm around Bruce to help him walk down the tunnel, "Why is it every time you get yourself injected with fear inducing substances, I am the one to clean up the mess?"

Of course, I already know the answer to my own question.

Time stretches to snails pace as we trudge through the grime, hopelessly lost. Behind us, Bruce leaves a trail of bloody footprints. We need to get above ground, where I can treat Bruce properly, and fast. Miraculously blue light streams into the tunnel a few paces ahead. The ground underneath the subway grate is littered with garbage. I climb up the large pile of unidentifiable scraps and cling to the metal bars to get a better look at the city above. Sliding down the pile I drop down beside Bruce and call Alfred.

"I'm worried he has lost a lot of blood," I whisper, my throat closing up.

"Not to worry, I brought some with me," Alfred reassures me.

Above us a car screeches to a stop. The grating above us makes a grinding noise and flips up. Alfred's head appears, silhouetted in the blue light.

"Hurry, before someone comes to investigate," he throws down a rope.

I catch the end and turn to Bruce, only to find him clutching an armload of guns.

"Where did those come from?" I ask, eyes widening.

"The garbage," he replies. He stares at the guns with horror, the hallucinogenic drug affecting his sight. I shift through the garbage I'm standing on to uncover more weapons.

"Bruce, drop the guns. Your life matters more," I say, turning back to him, "Climb up." I reach my hand down towards him, knowing full well the futility of the gesture.

"I can't," Bruce's haunted eyes stare up at me.

The guns remain locked in his grip.

I sigh heavily. "Alfred do you have anything in your car we can collect the guns in?" I ask.

Alfred disappears briefly and throws a garbage bag down to me. I start scooping up guns and garbage. Alfred tosses a second bag down and I fill that one too. The rest of the weapons fit into a third bag and I coax Bruce to dump his collection in as well. Satisfied the guns are being taken care of, Bruce relents to being pulled and pushed to street level. While Bruce lays waiting in the car, Alfred and I lug three heavy bags of guns up and into the trunk. Alfred slides into the driver's seat and I get in back with Bruce. After giving him the antidote, I lean over him and start pulling off pieces of his suit. With the cowl off, I can tell the antidote worked.

"Maybe I should just start carrying a few bottles of the antidote in my bag," I say to Alfred.

"Very wise of you, Miss Pearl," Alfred replies.

I start to peel the bandage off so I can clean the wound, but Bruce catches my hand in his. I turn to him, questioning.

"The guns?" he asks.

"Are safe," I answer, "And Cardinal O'Fallon?"

"Safe," he grunts, "Also saved Eleanor's bible. O'Fallon has it."

That said, he passes out, his head thumping against the leather car seat. My own vision flickers unsteadily. After three solid nights of no sleep, my energy levels without the rush of adrenaline are dropping fast. Treating Bruce will be difficult in such a state. The last time I exhausted my body so badly, the events of an entire half day were lost to me. My memory of that time is entirely blank, though somehow I managed to study, take a final test, and get myself into bed without mishap. I have the A grade to prove it.

With my mind on my excellent sleep deprived test taking skills, I try to bolster my confidence as we carry Bruce into the bunker and get him to the medical station. Alfred removes the rest of Bruce's suit. I tend the large wound in his side first. Unfortunately the crocodile reopened the wound he received the night his mansion burned down. I do my best with the bloody mess and the rest of the scrapes. Through the entire operation my mind goes on auto-pilot. Every move feels forced and robotic. I'm strangely detached from my body, aware it's starting to shut down. Eventually I have to sit briefly because I'm shaking so badly. A cup of tea magically appears underneath my hand. Alfred takes my place and continues to treat Bruce. The caffeine helps, but only a little bit.

Once Bruce is okay to move again, Alfred and I carry him back to the car. We drive home to the penthouse in silent worry. After getting our unconscious charge into bed, Alfred and I perch on the lounge seats, sipping tea quietly. A full glass of orange juice rests in front of the empty place at the coffee table, untouched and taunting me. I continuously swallow the tiniest bits of tea, hoping to quell the feelings of restlessness and anxiety bubbling up in my gut.

"He'll be okay," Alfred repeats, reassuring both of us, "A couple days of sleep, and he'll be fine."

"Last time he experienced Crane's toxin, he didn't also have a crocodile bite in his shoulder and a wound in his abdomen," I say.

"But the dose was less concentrated this time," Alfred reminds me.

"True, I think the effect had almost worn off by the time we got him back here," I consider, "Frankly, I have no idea how long it will take for him to recover. Could be hours. Could be weeks."

Alfred nods grimly.

In the other room Bruce mumbles something, possibly a name.

"He's been talking in his sleep," I explain, watching the open door.

"Lyn," Bruce mutters, more clearly this time.

I twitch at the sound of my name and have to grow roots to keep myself in my seat.

"If you wish, you could drag a chair over by the bed," Alfred suggests gently.

I look up and meet his eyes. He smiles at me kindly.

"Okay," I say, getting up.

"I'll put another pot on," Alfred offers, clearing the table and carrying the tray back to the kitchen.

Shoving, dragging, and sliding the chair over to the bed depletes me of my last energy reserves. I push the chair up against the duvet and take Bruce's hand. He's still sleeping deeply, if restlessly. As I sit there watching over him, I'm dimly aware of my head dropping, then springing back up and dropping again, but am physically unable to stop it. At some point I black out.

The next time I'm conscious I find myself draped halfway across the bed while still sitting in the chair. The wall length windows are dark, lit only by Gotham's lights. I sit up and watch Bruce. He stirs, sensing my movement.

"Lyn?" he whispers.

"Yeah?" I whisper back.

He encloses my hand in his. "Next time, I won't ask you to go back."

I rest my cheek on his hand, watching him. "Good, you're learning."

"I am. A lot lately."

"Eleanor always says the day you stop learning is the day you die. You're not dead yet, thanks to me and Alfred."

He closes his eyes and settles serenely back into his pillows.

"Bruce?" I ask timidly, "Do you remember anything when you're under the influence of the toxin?"

He opens an eye and arches a brow at me.

"Because I may have said…and done some things that...uh...perhaps I was experiencing the effects as well…" I stutter.

"The toxin usually leaves memories blank."

"Oh."

As he falls back asleep, his hand still cradling mine, the hypocrite in me wishes he did remember.


	25. Week 4:Monday

A/N: New York was fun, but this week was kind of an emotional roller coaster since my boyfriend broke up with me, then decided that was a bad idea, and begged my forgiveness. A very confusing ordeal. Fortunately I have Bruce Wayne and Lyn to write about. But, my apologies if this chapter is not up to the usual standards of editing, I was a bit distracted. Read, review, and help me feel better? Thank you!

24: Monday (worst day of the week):

The sluggish feeling of my brain needing extra power just to perform simple tasks lasts all morning. I stay awake all night last night to save the life of my boss, yet I can't escape the obligatory appearance at work on Monday morning. As I read through an endless amount of boring reports, I sneak furtive glances at my cell phone. Alfred promised to call me if Bruce's conditioned changed. When I left in the morning Bruce had been sleeping deeply and looking much better. Thinking about Bruce sound asleep in bed makes me ache with envy. I cradle my head in my arms, preparing to catch a few minutes of rest.

"Late night yesterday?"

The question jolts me upright. In front of my desk stands a handsome, well groomed, alert, and smiling young man. Drake looks annoyingly opposite of how I feel.

"I'm sorry, Drake," I reply, "I completely forgot you were coming in today."

"Yes, you certainly look like you could use an assistant," he replies, "I brought my resume." He hands me his documents.

"I thought I hired you already," I say, taking the rather short looking packet and sticking it in a pile on my desk.

"I thought you might want to confirm your good choice."

"Your actions on Saturday did that," I explain, "I don't think I can thank you enough. Actually, I believe you might be wasted on archives. Why not go work for Apple, or Google, or something if you know so much about computers?"

"That would require moving to another city. I already tried that for college, " Drake laughs and shrugs, "And anyway, I don't want to work with computers. It's more of a hobby."

"Well, what do you want to do?" I ask.

"Play football. But I can't do that anymore thanks to a shoulder injury," he explains.

"I actually meant, do you want to file or sort through the day's reports?" I continue with a smile.

"Ah," he says. He seriously studies the two piles sitting between us and decides, "Filing." he takes a stack, glances down at the top page, and automatically turns to the correct row of cabinets, as if by instinct. I've only known one other person to be able to acclimate to the Archives so quickly. And that was me.

As he disappears into the maze, I shuffle the reports around on my desk, hoping the papers will magically arrange themselves in alphabetical order. The society section of the _Gotham Times_ slips out and flutters to the floor. On my way to Wayne Enterprises, I had picked up an early copy of the paper to read the front page story: "Batman Saves Cardinal from Killer Crocodile". The newspaper, of course, got most of the facts wrong. I sigh, bending down to pick up the wayward scrap of newsprint, intending to put it back on the desk. The paper never leaves my grasp. There in my hands rests proof of my surprise date with Floyd Lawton on Saturday. In the full page photo Floyd gallantly kisses my hand, looking very dashing while doing so. I, on the other hand, appear very confused with a dense expression on my face. Underneath the photo is a scowling, blurry snapshot of Bruce Wayne with the headline: "Bruce Wayne Faces Competition in Love". I hastily skim the article…

'_…begs the question, what exactly does Bruce Wayne see in such a nonentity? Lynnet Pearl seems to be collecting men of fame and fortune, with her latest conquest being Floyd Lawton. Lawton, who recently lost his older brother in a tragic accident, retained his good humor and generous charm at various parties over the weekend. But perhaps the pleasant smile masks a deep mourning for his brother, leading him to seek comfort in the arms of…"_

I abruptly stop reading and slam the paper down on my desk. For someone who is such a nonentity, I'm getting my name in the paper an awful lot lately. Inspired by energy coming from righteous adrenaline, I snatch out my scissors and hack at the photo. The article immediately goes into the trash, but I pin the photo, angry jagged edges and all, to my cabinet under the photo of me and Bruce. Might as well add to my 'collection'. I vaguely wonder if anyone else has read the paper yet. Thankfully, I'm fairly certain the busy CEO of Wayne Enterprises spares no time for such trifles. Receptionists, however, can sometimes have too much time on their hands. I put my head down on my desk and fall asleep to escape my worries.

Within minutes I'm woken up by the ping of elevator doors. Any hopes of Mary bringing the newspapers down without reading them first are dashed as I force my eyes to stay open long enough to observe the furious receptionist storming towards me. She slams the tabloids down on my desk. My brain jumps into function, and I stare down at the incriminating photo of Floyd and me at dinner.

"How could you do this to me? To Bruce?' Mary says, her shoulders shaking in anger.

"One dinner. It meant nothing…"

"Nothing? A…coffee break is nothing. A casual conversation at a party, a brief lunch, is nothing! This, an intimate dinner at a fancy restaurant after being stood up by the guy you are supposed to be dating, is most definitely something!" She dumps the rest of the papers on the edge of my desk, clearly not wanting to cover up the evidence of my infidelity and betrayal.

"First you take Gotham City's number one most eligible bachelor, but I suppose that wasn't enough for you, was it?" Mary continues her tirade, "No, you had to have number two as well, never mind all the hearts you step on along the way, which is the same old story, I fall for some guy, I think he's great, but then he turns out to be yet another jerk on the long list of jerks I've dated, and you turn out to be, by far, the worst friend ever."

She takes a breath and throws her hands up in frustration, "Lyn, I don't understand you. I've tried to help you out. I get you contacts, teach you to dress in ways that flatter your figure, go to great pains to throw you in the path of Bruce Wayne, turn you from social recluse into the socialite of the year as Prince of Gotham's scandalous new girlfriend, and this is how you repay me?"

"You tried to turn me into you," I say the first words that come to mind.

"Exactly! Wait…what? No!," she starts waving her hands furiously, "I would never, ever, never, have ever, even considered accepting any of Bruce's offers for a date, back when he did offer, and, wow, did he offer, standing at my desk and flirting shamelessly. All I thought about was how much you seemed to like him, and billionaire playboys were usually overrated anyway, and I said no! Why couldn't you?"

"Mary, I really can't deal with this today," I say, rubbing my pounding head.

"You have a hangover I suppose," she accuses, "Did you spend the night drinking with Floyd? Or with Bruce? Either way, as far as I'm concerned, you're on your own now. Don't come crying to me when they both dump you." She swivels on her heel and stalks back to the elevator. The door pings again and she leaves.

I groan, dropping face first back onto my desk.

"Good morning, Ms. Pearl," Mr. Fox says, having come out of the elevator as Mary went in.

I offer up another groan as a greeting. Mr. Fox takes my response genially.

"No need to worry about the confidential files in Applied Sciences, by the way," Mr. Fox says and twitches the tabloid around on my desk to get a better look, "After Drake started programming at age 11, I've had ample time to perfect my computer security methods keeping him from discovering things he shouldn't."

"Oh. Thank you!" I exclaim quietly with a breath of relief, "I haven't even had time to think of that."

"Not a problem," Mr. Fox says, "I'm letting him work on a new project for the 'army'. Should be fairly innocuous. Send him down when he's done here."

"Okay," I agree.

Mr. Fox lifts the tabloid up and raises an eyebrow at me.

"Don't ask," I say in warning.

"Wasn't going to," he says, a nostalgic glint in his eye, "Reminds me of my own wild youth in the 70's. Tabloids, scandal…"

He heads off in the direction of Applied Sciences, leaving me with that slightly unwelcome tidbit of information. Desperately trying to banish the image of a young Lucius Fox in a disco outfit permanently ingrained in my mind, I start to sort through the day's work. Unfortunately, thanks to a series of nap breaks, I don't get very far before I'm interrupted when my cell phone loudly demands attention.

"Hello?" I ask after knocking over a few newly sorted stacks in my haste to answer.

"Good afternoon, Miss Pearl," Alfred says calmly.

"Is it afternoon already?" I sigh.

"Nearly 1:30," Alfred confirms, "And Master Wayne is up and walking about."

"I'm glad to hear he's doing well, but shouldn't he still be resting? A full day of recovery wouldn't hurt," I say.

"There's no stopping him, I'm afraid," Alfred says.

"Put him on the phone," I sigh.

"Very good, Miss Pearl," Alfred says, sounding distinctly pleased with himself.

"Hello?" Bruce asks after a few minutes of silence.

"Bruce? Alfred says you're out of bed," I say.

"I am. And I feel fine. Ignore Alfred's worries," he says.

"The knife wound is okay? And you're head doesn't hurt?" I ask anxiously.

"Both okay," Bruce confirms. The phone is briefly muffled, "Alfred, the gray suit please."

"Certainly, sir," says a disappointed Alfred.

"I'll be in Wayne Enterprises soon," Bruce tells me.

"Do you remember anything about last night?" I ask, curiosity getting the better of me.

"I remember being nearly knocked out by a bible," Bruce says, sounding slightly distracted. I can hear the swish of fabric as Bruce gets dressed. He lets out a hiss of pain, probably from jarring a still healing injury.

"I have better aim than that," I protest, "I hit the creature square on the head!"

Bruce chuckles, "Get back to work. I'm not paying you to chat on the phone."

"You're also not paying me to sew up crocodile bites, but I don't hear you complaining about that," I retort. I can feel Bruce's smile through the phone before he hangs up. Setting my phone down on the desk, I proceed to re-sort the files I knocked over.

An hour later the elevator pings once more. Eagerly, I find myself sitting straight up, expecting Bruce. To my disappointment I watch as none other than Floyd Lawton strolls up to my desk.

"I think Mary may be angry with me," Floyd says.

"What could possibly have given you that idea?" I ask and turn back to my work.

"She instructed me to take the elevator to the top floor to find the Department of Archives," he says, sighing.

"And did you find it there?" I ask sarcastically, not feeling sorry for him in the least.

"No," he answers, "Luckily, I ran into Bruce. He directed me down here."

"Did he?" I ask. I can guess why he sent Floyd down here. Now I have to come up with a way to work Feely's envelope into the conversation.

"He did," Floyd smiles, "I told him I wanted to give you this." he hands me a package wrapped in a Gotham Art Museum store's bag.

I put on my best forced smile and take the package. A typical gift. As soon as people find out you're an artist, immediately everyone starts buying you anything art related. I prepare myself to fake surprise and excitement as I open the plastic bag and pull out undoubtedly another oversized art book on Monet or Van Gogh.

However, once I see the words on the cover, my face freezes. The book is a collection of portraiture by Jonathan Singer Sargent, my favorite artist.

"Oh," I whisper, breathlessly. I open the cover and turn each full color page delicately. Portrait, after portrait, after portrait of America and Europe's wealthiest clients stare back at me. I come to my favorite painting of a little boy fidgeting in his chair while a very put-upon governess sits in the background. "How did you know?" I ask.

"Maintaining a strong art history background is essential in high society," Floyd explains grinning, "You're always drawing portraits, and Sargent is one of the best. I thought his relatively loose style might have inspired yours."

"It definitely did. This is beautiful," I say, caressing the book, "Thank you!"

"You're welcome," he says, "It's the least I could do after your original painting was viciously destroyed by my ungrateful father. I don't think I apologized for that before. I am truly sorry."

"It's all right," I snort, "I've experienced worse destruction of my artwork before."

"Sounds tragic. Your art is wonderful," he says.

I laugh uncomfortably. Floyd is laying on the compliments a little thick. I wonder if even a simple archivist would fall for this ploy. I suppose the nonentity who fell for the notorious Bruce Wayne probably would.

"Thank you," I say, attempting a flirtatious expression and probably failing.

"What are you doing Wednesday night?"

"Um," I stammer. The perfect moment to dig for answers to the mysterious envelope just presented itself, "Nothing, why?"

"I happen to have reservations at a very exclusive restaurant on the boardwalk next to the amusement park. What would you say to a night of exquisite food and crass entertainment?" he asks, leaning over my desk and letting his hair artfully fall across his forehead. His eyes travel from my face to a spot slightly over my shoulder. I stand up gracelessly and attempt to block his view of the newspaper photos with my body.

"Sounds wonderful!" I exclaim.

"Perfect," he says, "I'll pick you up at 6:00."

"Perfect," I echo faintly.

He sails away grandly. I sit back down heavily.

"Who was that?" Drake asks, leaning up against a cabinet and staring into the space Floyd had just filled.

"Floyd Lawton," I reply curtly.

"He's gorgeous."

"Please, take him off my hands."

"Gladly, do you have his number?" Drake jokes.

"Actually, yes," I hunt around for the business card in my purse.

Drake takes it, looks at it, and returns it to me with a sigh, "Unfortunately, if he was flirting with you, it means I'll probably have no luck."

"He's too old for you anyway. Nearly my age."

"That man? Can't be older than twenty five!"

"Twenty eight."

"Same thing."

"And you look like you're 18."

"Twenty one!" he protests, laughing.

"Old enough to know when to get to work and stop ogling," I scold lightly.

"I finished filing," he says simply, shrugging his shoulders, "What next?"

I swivel in my desk chair, my mouth dropping open. I had expected him to get hopelessly lost by the tenth file.

"Finished?" I repeat.

"Yeah, wasn't too bad. I figured out the system," he says.

"I helped make that system, and I have been the only one to navigate this department that quickly since my predecessor. The system was designed to be impossible for a reason," I state with disbelief.

"I have a knack for solving impossible systems," Drake says, "I'm told I get it from my dad."

"Drake Fox, you will be a valuable new addition to Wayne Enterprises!" I say happily, "Now, help me organize these reports."

We sit together swapping stories while we sort and catalog every page on my desk. With two people working, we finish in half the time I usually take.

"Your dad wants you down in Applied Sciences," I tell him after placing the last orderly pile of paper on my desk. Giving my current helter-skelter life, finally having some organization provides me with a pleasant sense of control.

"Okay," Drake says eagerly, "I'll see you tomorrow, bright and early!"

"Don't remind me," I say. I wave to him, sling my bag over my shoulder, and wearily take the elevator to the lobby. Since I'm done two hours early, I decide to stop by my supposedly temporary home that I haven't seen for a while.

When I arrive back at Chad's apartment, I curl up on the sofa with my lovely new Sargent book. I run my hands gingerly across the pages. I could spend hours studying the artist's brushstrokes and compositions. Instead, I barely make it through a quarter of the book before Chad comes home and interrupts me. He offers no greeting and immediately walks into his home office. The slam of the door makes his feelings known. I get up and pad softly over to the door, intending to find out the source of his anger. I have my suspicions, considering Mary's talent at spreading gossip.

"Chad?" I inquire, knocking softly.

The door flies open inward. Chad, looking a little taken aback at his own force, stands in the doorway. He gently pushes me out of the way and walks into the kitchen, where he proceeds to pace back and forth.

"Lyn, explain to me why I spent my entire lunch break and half of the day attempting to comfort a rather hysterical, heart broken Mary?" Chad asks quietly.

"Because you are a very kind and understanding person," I answer, sliding onto a bar stool.

He stops in his tracks and gives me what probably amounts to a glare. Chad's face and disposition were not built for anger.

I sigh, "She is under the impression I have stolen Floyd Lawton from her."

Chad leans on the counter and peers into my face, silently judging me.

"I didn't do anything," I protest, "Floyd came and took Bruce's place at a dinner one night, the tabloids picked it up, and the rest is history."

"Floyd took Bruce's place? Where was Bruce Wayne?" Chad asks.

"Business," I lie, blinking to break up Chad's incessant stare.

"I don't believe you," Chad accuses, looking severely disappointed in me.

"Well, if you think he's lying, why not ask him?" I argue in Bruce's defense, "I believe him."

"Lyn, Bruce sleeps in every meeting I've ever seen him attend. He hired Lucius Fox precisely to avoid thinking about business. But I'm not going to ask him, because he's not the one lying to me right now," Chad pushes his glasses up his nose.

"I don't know what you mean," I say, my gaze traveling longingly down the counter to the Sargent book on the couch.

"I know you well enough to tell when you are lying, Lynnet," Chad says, "Your eyes go all wide and you look like you're trying too hard. And I'm sick of the lying. Lying about where you stay until the early hours of the morning, about visiting Eleanor, and about everything."

I take the criticism silently, determined not to let anything slip.

Chad laughs scornfully, "You have nothing to say, because you know I'm right! Mary made and observation that caught my interest in between the rubbish of her crying over a guy she's only known for a couple of days. I think it sheds light on the real reason she's so upset by this incident between you and Floyd. She claimed ever since Bruce Wayne deigned to return to Gotham and waste his father's money overhauling the entire city, you've changed, and not in a good way."

I shift in my seat uncomfortably.

"I think Mary's right," Chad continues, "I've ignored it up to now, simply because the small changes seemed easy to ignore. But you're trampling on everyone, Lyn. You have been brushing me off constantly, Rose is concerned that you never visit her at the library anymore and was hurt by how cold you were after the disaster at the children's museum, and now Mary? I don't know what has been going on; I don't even need to know. But if you want to remain friends, if you want to continue to stay here, you need to reciprocate more than you are."

I take a deep breath. Then I make a much more impromptu decision than such a problem requires, and say, "Okay. I'm sorry Chad. I'm sorry for taking your generosity and friendship for granted. You're right, a lot has been happening, very rapidly, and," a slight panic swells in my chest, "I'll leave tonight."

I get up from the stool and walk back to my borrowed bedroom, feeling unsteady on my feet. Chad doesn't move. Memories of the last time I was kicked out of my home come back to me, fresh as the day it happened. I pack quickly, throwing everything into my trunk. The final item to go in is my new book. Madame X glares haughtily at me over her shoulder from the front cover. I throw a towel on top of it. Thanks to my rather wayward packing, I have to sit on the lid to close the trunk. Heaving it onto its side, I lug the hateful thing into the living room only to discover Chad has disappeared back into his office. I'm stuck dragging the trunk alone out of the apartment, into the elevator, and onto the plush carpeting in the apartment lobby. I end up standing there awkwardly with no foreseeable home to go to.

Fortunately I happen to have a certain butler on speed dial. I suppose there are perks to choosing Batman over everything else. I'll have to wait to see if the perks outweigh the cons.

Minutes later Alfred pulls up in front of the building.

"Thank you," I tell Alfred, handing off my trunk.

"You're welcome, Miss Pearl," Alfred replies, shoving the trunk into the back of the car.

"I think you might be chauffeuring me around more than Bruce," I comment.

Alfred chuckles, "No trouble at all."

"Thank you again, Alfred," I repeat as if I were a broken record, "And sorry about the heavy trunk. I think the excessive metal decorations add twenty pounds."

"Miss Pearl, a small fraction of the items required for Master Bruce's upkeep couldn't be forced into ten trunks of this size. When you called me requesting help moving out, I was grateful I did not need to hire a truck," Alfred replies.

"Yes, well, thanks also for not asking too many questions and saving me from embarrassment," I add, "I doubt if your employer will be so considerate."

"Will I be bringing you to the penthouse?"

"No, that could get awkward," I admit, "The bunker will suit me perfectly. I can paint whenever I want."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure. My friendship with Bruce is confusing enough. The last thing I need right now is to go destroying that as well."

"Very well then, Miss Pearl," Alfred agrees, "Sometimes I wonder if Master Bruce adopted the bat's poor visual acuity in addition to the wings and ears."

At the bunker we unload the trunk and Alfred obligingly drives me to the nearest store to pick up supplies. Alfred's eyes light up when we enter IKEA. I strongly suspect the limitless organizational possibilities contained in a single store appeal to him nearly as much as they do to me. Afterwards, laden down with bundles of cardboard boxes, I choose a more secluded corner of the bunker and spend a very happy hour pinning up floral bed sheets with multicolored, heavy duty duck tape. Together Alfred and I set up a cot with a mattress, a nightstand, a little bookshelf, and a yellowed lamp whose design probably dates back to the invention of electricity which we found stashed in the bunker. For the finishing touch I plaster my collection of impressionist art Calendar cutouts to the walls. At the end of the bed I leave my trunk, with all my clothes still piled in it. I figure most things end up in a heap on the floor after a couple days, so might as well let them start off that way. Wrinkles are not exactly a pressing concern for me anymore.

"Cozy," Alfred pronounces upon seeing the end result.

"Cozy? What's going on back here?" Bruce asks from behind a curtain. He sweeps it back and his eyes widen when he discovers my new room.

"Alfred has been helping me move in," I explain, lounging on my new bed.

"Move in?" Bruce sits down on the edge of the bed and takes in his surroundings. Alfred discreetly disappears behind another curtain.

"Unforeseen circumstances made it necessary to leave Chad's apartment without much time for planning, so I decided staying here for a while would be ideal. If you end up coming back at four in the morning with a gaping wound, I can just stumble out of bed and fix it. It's only temporary."

"What will you tell people?" Bruce asks.

"I'll tell them I'm living with my boyfriend," I tease, "It's true, in some sense."

"Which boyfriend?" Bruce asks, his eyes more serious than his tone would suggest.

"Let's say the one who ranks highest in Gotham's fine society," I retort, "I suppose I might be moving again soon if Lawton continues to upstage you in the chivalry department."

"Why?" Bruce asks.

"I told you. I figured this would be convenient."

"I meant why did you leave Chad's?"

"An argument came up. Nothing big, but I thought it would be easier if I stopped imposing on him."

"Lyn, the truth."

"And I'm telling you…"

"No, your eyes are practically bugging out; you're lying. Tell me why."

I sit up straight, wondering if I've always been so obvious.

"Since when can you tell if I'm lying?" I question him.

"Stop avoiding my question," Bruce responds.

"Alfred was much more tactful when he came and picked me up. I told him you would ask…" I say.

"Lyn," Bruce interrupts again, warning me with his tone of voice.

I shrug, slumping back on the bed.

"Don't you think you're getting in a little too deep?" Bruce asks.

"Aren't you being rather hypocritical with that question?"

"I chose to live like this. Gotham is my city. I can't stand by and watch crime and corruption take control. You can have a normal life, even while helping me. But not if you stay here."

"Gotham is home to thousands," I argue, "Don't fool yourself into thinking that just because your parents owned enough wealth to practically buy and sustain the entire city, you own the place and its people along with it. Has it ever occurred to you that I, or others, might long for the power to right some wrongs done in Gotham too?"

"I refuse to watch Batman take over your life," Bruce says darkly.

"Like it's done yours?" I ask, stunning Bruce into momentary silence.

"Bruce Wayne, I've made the decision to help you because I believe the good Batman is doing for this city extends farther than either of us could reach as Gotham's spoiled prince or an anonymous archivist burrowed deep in files," I continue to say.

"I thought…" he starts to say, but trails off and looks away.

"Thought what? Thought that you were the only one who has been hurt by Gotham city?"

"No!" he sighs, "I don't know what I thought. I think you're making a mistake."

I stand up forcefully, frustrated at his response. "You know, I have spent all day getting diatribes from people about what I should and shouldn't do. I'm sick of it," I tell him. Grabbing my bag and motorcycle helmet, I storm out of my makeshift tent.

Bruce follows me, "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to the only place where I know I'll get exactly what I expect," I answer vaguely, swinging a leg over the motorcycle and driving off.

Arkham Asylum's grounds are refreshingly silent as I pull into the driveway. I leave the motorcycle next to the only other car in the empty parking lot. By the time I push my way through the heavy front doors, my bad mood has shifted to a weary exhaustion. It's becoming harder and harder to just take a break from life for a while. The lack of sleep is probably not helping matters.

"Frizz!" Harley greets me, offering a wide, genuine smile.

I smile back and lean up against her desk, "Hey. How are things going here, since your security guy took off with an inmate?"

"Perfectly fine," Harley says happily, "In fact, our new guy claims security has never been tighter."

"Great!"

"I do miss Jack and Feely though," she adds. Harley's eyes darken for a split second. Before I can figure out if it was just a trick of the light, she brightens and bounds out from behind her desk.

"You're just in time to help me put up some new patients!" she exclaims excitedly.

"What?" I stutter, slightly taken aback.

"I'll just buzz for someone to take over the desk for me," Harley presses a button under the desk, "We're a little short on staff. New hires aren't coming in like they used to."

"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," I comment wryly.

"Anyway," Harley throws an arm around my shoulders, "Now you get to meet all my old friends."

"How wonderful," I grin at her enthusiasm, "Where are these friends?"

"In the Long Gallery," she says, propelling me towards the stairs.

At the top of the stairs we go through the tallest doors I have ever seen. Behind them lies a hallway longer than a football field but no wider than the doors. The overall effect is quite strange and imposing.

"Meet the patients!" Harley proclaims, stopping just inside the hall and gesturing to the walls.

"Harley, these are portraits," I say, confused. Above me, on either side, are hundreds of frames. The paintings and photographs nearest me are clustered together with almost every inch of the wall covered. The density decreases as we walk down the hallway until we get two thirds of the way down, after which the walls are empty. Harley swings a hanging ladder out and pushes it towards me.

"Usually Jack helps me, but today I have you!" she informs me cheerfully.

I let her load my arms with portraits and follow her up the ladder. One at a time, she pounds a nail into the wall and hooks a portrait up. The perfectionist artist in me cringes as each portrait hangs more crooked than the last. We make our way up the wall, which must be at least three stories tall, and Harley puts up six portraits.

"The number of new patients is also getting smaller," Harley says, "It dropped once poor Crane left. Mostly we just get old friends who got lost, were rescued, and brought back here. But they already have portraits." She waves widely in the general direction of the older frames.

"Why do you put these up?" I ask her, returning to ground level and examining the nearest photo of a woman with droopy eyes.

"That is Carlen," Harley informs me, joining me in staring at the woman's face, "She's still with us. A tragic case of extreme OCPD and OCD combined. Killed her husband by slitting his throat. Addicted to gambling." Harley adjusts the frame with a fondness, "The portraits are hung to make our patients feel like a part of our family."

"She's still with us…meaning some of these people are dead?" I conclude.

"Well, if they die in the Asylum, we keep the portraits up to commemorate them. But if they leave, we take the portraits down."

"I see." I move on to another portrait of an inmate I distinctly recognize. "Hello Feely."

"Yes, I haven't had the heart to take Beely down yet," Harley says, looking soulful, "I have a feeling he'll be joining us again one day."

"Don't worry," I tell her, "He will. Count on it."

Harley clasps her hands to her chest, "Can you find him for me? He did seem to enjoy your company!"

I nod. Feely's face grins back at me, contemptuous even in a photograph.

"Come here, this man is one of my favorites," Harley says, dragging me back towards the doors and pointing to a painting that looks as if it came from the 1900's, "Martin Hawkins. He beat his father to death in revenge for his father's abuse."

"How horrible," I say. Upon closer inspection I can see strange scars trailing up the man's face, starting at the mouth and ending at the ears like a spider web.

"He then became a serial killer. He cut up people's faces and cut out their organs. He was one of my great-great grandfather's first patients."

She continues on down the line of patients, pointing out people she knew or found especially interesting. I follow her and listen to every word. The stories become more and more unbelievable as we go on down the hall.

"And this is Crocodilly," Harley announces, stopping in front of another familiar face.

"Crocodilly?" I ask.

"No one knows his real name. Or where he came from. They say he grew up in the sewers and filed his teeth down to razor points to eat the rats," Harley explains.

"I think I met him, or it," I say.

"Him," Harley says, "Crocodilly is a man. He just has an unfortunate skin disease and personal hygiene problems."

"When did he escape?" I ask.

"Oh, he died," Harley replies, "Months ago."

"I wouldn't be too sure about that," I say.

I'm not quite sure myself about how to respond to the hall of 'family' portraits. The idea of having to work with people such as Hawkins makes me sick to my stomach. Harley's strange mannerisms must be her method of finding a balance between normality, and Arkham Asylum's insanity. Perhaps she needs a brief interlude as much as I do.

"Harley, have you ever ridden a motorcycle?" I ask.

"No, I've only ever ridden the train," she replies. Her eyes glaze over, lost in a memory, "Once."

"Would you like to?" I ask, on impulse.

"No, I don't leave the asylum." Harley starts to look uncomfortable.

"But you did with Jack. Come on, just a ride around the parking lot."

"No, I like it here. And Jack is very…persuasive."

"The parking lot is not technically leaving."

"I don't want to," Harley says, ending the discussion. She glides back to the doors we came in from and throws them open, "It's getting late, you should go."

"Okay," I say, "But the offer is open, if you ever feel the need to escape this place for a while."

"Escape?" Harley asks, laughing, "How absurd! Who would ever want to escape?"

Together we walk down to the main lobby. A dour attendant at the desk barely glances up as I leave.

"Come back soon!" Harley yells after me.

As I walk out the door I'm too busy waving back at her to notice the oozing man lying on the steps in front of me before I trod on his foot. I curse creatively and leap backwards.

"Crocodilly!" Harley cries. She dashes outside and shoves me out of the way. Crouching down to check her patient, she screams for someone inside the asylum. The attendant and a few other nurses arrive to help. The asylum front steps are engulfed in a flurry of activity as various people run in and out fetching things to tend to the injured man. In the harsh floodlights I recognize the green half-human, half-reptile as the thing responsible for abducting Cardinal O'Fallon. Well lit, the crocodile looks much more like a man than I had previously thought. I also guiltily notice he is missing an eye. I hadn't considered the permanence of my actions in the heat of the moment last night.

I suppose if I can run away from conflict, Bruce Wayne is allowed to release his frustration by apprehending dangerous criminals. A shadow flutters slightly in the corner of my eye. I carefully skirt around the crowd on the stairs and slip into a darker alley between the two main buildings.

"I came to thank Batman on behalf of Harley Quinzel for the delivery," I tell the shadow. Behind the darkness I can see the tumbler waiting. Batman turns to face me. I cross my arms and lean against the brick wall, waiting for some kind of response. I'm not quite ready to forgive him. I've proven my abilities plenty of times. It's time he accepted me as being completely a part of his covert life.

"I'm sorry," he says, stepping closer.

I laugh humorlessly, "So what, you can only apologize while hiding behind a mask?"

He towers above me and I realize we are all alone, as close as we were last night, in an alley behind an asylum. It seems I'm only allowed to have intimate moments with Bruce at night, in some kind of disguise, while surrounded by insanity.

"If the gift of the Killer Croc was intended for me, I think you might want to get your ideas from Floyd next time," I say in an attempt to lighten the mood.

My flippant humor fades when our eyes meet and memories of certain sensations come back to me in an embarrassing rush. Batman reaches up to touch my face. I watch him carefully, trying to discern whether he's remembering the same thing behind the mask. His gloved hand is rough, with patches of slime left over from his recent accomplishments. It leaves a trail across my cheek. Hastily he pulls away, snatches up my hand instead, and briefly brushes his lips across it. That done, he turns, his cape billowing behind him, and stalks back to the tumbler.

"What was that for?" I call out after him, grinning slightly.

"Saturday," he gruffly calls back before he disappears into his vehicle.

Apparently Bruce Wayne did read the tabloids today. I sigh and wait until the tumbler rumbles away before seeking out my motorcycle.

On the drive back, a combination of twilight and pollution turns the sky over Gotham pink. The roads in the narrows are deserted, but no one bothers a speeding motorcyclist in black leather. I reach the bunker and return to my makeshift bedroom. I'm about to undress when I notice a new addition sitting on my nightstand. The smell emanating from the vase of flowers provides a nice change from the usual musty stench of the bunker. I roll my eyes and secretly grin, wondering if this is Bruce's idea of a better apology gift, or Alfred's idea of a house warming present.

"You left without getting to hear who showed up in my office today," Bruce says, his face half hidden by a hanging bed sheet. I mentally berate myself for being completely unaware that he made it back before me.

"You must have been speeding the entire way home," I accuse, noticing that he's dressed comfortably in lounge pants and a shirt.

"Rough terrain vehicles don't need to use roads," he explains with a smirk.

"Well then, tell me who came to visit you in your office" I say, sitting down. "And thanks for the flowers," I add.

"I can't take credit for those. A demonstration of Alfred's gratitude that I will no longer be alone when I come back late with an injury," Bruce remarks, "As I was saying, Eleanor came to Wayne Enterprises this morning."

"May I preemptively apologize for anything she might have said, or done, to you?"

Bruce laughs, "She gave me that package on the bed. And instructed me to tell you to call her afterwards next time you leave her to chase after monsters, so she can be sure you're still breathing."

"Only when I chase monsters, or did she mean more generally?"

"I believe she meant any life threatening situation," Bruce responds, smiling down at me.

"I suppose I can remember to do that."

I pick up the cardboard box and shake it slightly, hearing a softened thump.

"Probably knitting," I confide.

"Open it," he suggests and joins me on the bed, "I've been dying of curiosity."

I rip open the packaging tape and dig through a layer of Styrofoam peanuts to find a knitted, greenish-brown lump. I shake the fabric out and lay it on the bed between us. It sits there, ready to be snapped in a photo and posted to the 'worst of' UKO (unidentifiable knitted objects) thread on Ravelry.

"Is that…a suit?" Bruce asks, looking perplexed.

"Or the pelt of a gigantic frog run over by a tank," I offer my theory, my mind still on the crocodile man, "Actually, it's kind of shaped like a karate gi," I explain, pointing out the side flaps. I get up and try to put it on over my clothes but the fit is too tight.

"There's some kind of stiff lining underneath the knitting," I say. I strip down to my underwear without hesitation. After modeling for life drawing sessions, I'm fairly lax about personal nudity. Bruce, I notice with amusement, hastily turns his face to the wall. I slip Eleanor's suit on. The fit is perfect.

I test the suit by sitting down. Even with the added stiffness of whatever mystery material lies underneath, the knees and elbows of the suit bend with surprising ease. I stand back up and pull what appears to be a hood attached to the back over my head. The hood manages to hide most of my face in shadow without obscuring my view. The overlarge turtleneck of the suit successfully covers the rest.

"I wonder why she made it using brown, dark gray, and evergreen colored yarn?" I muse.

"To ensure you're prepared to take refuge in a forest?" Bruce considers.

"Forests haven't been seen in Gotham for ages," I squash his theory.

"Maybe she wanted to make sure you matched the monster," he adds.

"It smells funny too," I say, holding an arm out for Bruce to sniff.

He recognizes it immediately, making a face, "That's flame retardant."

"Flame retardant?"

"It has a very distinct, pungent smell."

"Why would she drench it in flame retardant?"

"In case someone starts a forest fire?" Bruce suggests with a playful grin.

I laugh, "I guess I'll have to pay her a visit tomorrow and ask."

Bruce nods and then turns away again when he realizes I'm digging through my clothes trunk for my pajamas. Getting the suit off proves to be more difficult than getting into it. Finally, with my pajamas on, and feeling much more comfortable out of the suit, I sit back down. Bruce picks up Eleanor's creation and examines it carefully.

"I think that might be Kevlar underneath the wool," Bruce informs me.

"Kevlar is not something one usually comes across in one's average, local yarn shop," I say with surprise.

Bruce shrugs, leans over to slip the suit into my trunk, and props himself up on the end of the bed with an elbow. I sit cross-legged next to him in my oversized T-shirt as I watch him occupy himself by fiddling with a tassel on my afghan. An afghan lovingly knitted by Eleanor. Neither of us knows what to say next, but Bruce doesn't appear to want to leave.

I flop down on my back and close my eyes. Bruce merely moves himself so my feet are no longer in his face.

"What exactly are 'Happy Trees'?" Bruce asks spontaneously.

"hmm?" I ask sleepily, and then realize what shirt I'm wearing. Bob Ross' unmistakable face smiles up at me from my front. The words 'Happy Trees' march across the fabric underneath his paintbrush. "You don't know Bob Ross?" I ask incredulously.

"Who?" Bruce asks.

"I don't know you anymore," I announce, turning my back to him.

"Lyn…" Bruce laughs pleadingly.

"Happy trees are when you paint a tree with the branches tilted upwards in a sort of smile. Bob Ross believed you should never paint happy trees because branches naturally droop downward," I explain, pretending to take the discussion very seriously, "Except when I was learning to paint from Ross'videos, I refused to follow this rule because I didn't like my trees to be depressed."

"How considerate of you," Bruce acknowledges.

"At the age of fourteen I went through a tree period in my artistic career. I drew nothing but twisted roots and sprawling branches for over two years."

"What prompted you to move on to portraits?"

"A tree can't smile," I explain.

He indulges me by grinning.

"I found it was more fun to draw my friends," I add, "Back when I had friends. I'm beginning to understand why you seemed closed off from the world when we first met. After all the lies and intrigues, the only friend I have left, other than you and Alfred, is Harley. And the only friends she has are kept locked in padded cells or exist only in dead-eyed portraits on the wall, so what does that say about me?"

"It says you're learning to make sacrifices for something you believe in," Bruce answers, smiling grimly.

"Or that lack of sleep is turning me into a persnickety old woman before my time. Maybe this is why Eleanor sleeps in so often. Seeing as it's nearly midnight, if you could turn the lights off when you leave I would be very grateful," I tell him and settle back into my pillows.

"And if I come back with a life threatening wound?"

"Turn them back on and wake me up."

Bruce stands and I listen to the tumbler rumble out the door before falling asleep.

Sometime in the night the lights flare on, I wake up, unquestioningly tend to an exhausted Batman's various cuts, stitch up a rather jagged wound, and then fall back into bed. Having my bedroom in the bunker is already doing wonders for my sleep schedule.

To my surprise, I feel Bruce collapse onto the bed next to me after a couple minutes, leading me to question the motivation behind Alfred's insistence on two pillows for my bed.


	26. Week 4:Tuesday

A/N: Wow! Thank you all for being so supportive and wonderful in your reviews! Love you guys! Free imaginary bat shaped cookies for everyone! I actually tried making bat shaped cookies once. They ended up looking like puffy logs of…well…anyway they were delicious but decidedly not batlike.

In other news, TDKR should be filming in Pitt soon. I'm excited!

25: Tuesday

For the second day this week I wake up to a buzzing cell phone. Considering the lack of windows in the bunker, I have no clue what time it is but it feels like six in the morning. Or perhaps I went to bed at six in the morning. I groan into the familiar creamy, satin pillow. Then I realize I don't have expensive pillowcases. Then the pillow moves and my brain process it as a shoulder.

I nearly jump out of the bed in my haste to get off Bruce's bare chest. The cell phone shudders on the nightstand across from me, threatening to wake the sleeping, half naked man in my bed. Knowing how awkward the situation could get if he were to wake up, I desperately try to lean over Bruce to reach the cell phone. My hand misses the buzzing piece of plastic by an inch. I stretch my fingers a little. I stretch my elbow farther. I lean so far forward I'm barely hovering an inch above Bruce. By this point I realize I could have just crawled over him. Intelligence and I do not get along in the morning.

My hand finally bumps the phone, tipping it off the nightstand.

"No!" I wince quietly, lose my balance, bang my foot against the wall behind me, collapse onto Bruce, fall halfway off the bed, and grab the phone.

"Hello?" I answer the phone. Finally.

"Hi, Lyn," Drake says, sounding altogether too pleasant for such a morning, "Where are you? Are you coming in today? It's 2:30 in the afternoon and I already did most of the filing. If it's all right by you, I think I'll help my dad in Applied Sciences."

"Uh…" I start to say.

"Lyn?" Bruce asks groggily, attempting to sit up and finding my legs in his lap.

I pretend to cough, "Drake, I'm not feeling too well," another cough, "I think I'm going to stay home today. Don't want to give anyone the cold."

"Wow, that sounds horrible," Drake says, sincerely concerned, "Do you need a doctor?"

"I'll be fine. I have a superb immune system," I explain bravely, adding in another hacking cough for good measure.

"Okay. I could stop by and bring you my dad's special cough syrup. It works wonders."

"No thank you," I say hastily, "But you could do me a favor. On my computer there is a checklist for all the sick days I've accumulated over the years. If you could check one off, that would be wonderful."

"All right, I'll pull it up now," Drake says.

"The password is…"

"No need, hacking your computer was a breeze. I did it earlier this morning when it became clear you weren't coming in till late. You need to be more creative about passwords. A good password contains a randomized choice of capital and lower case letters, and numbers, and some form of punctuation."

"Thanks. I think."

"You're welcome," Drake says, sounding pleased, "Wow, you do have a good immune system! There are at least 100 days here. I checked one off but you might as well take the year."

"100 days!" Bruce exclaims quietly behind me.

"What?" Drake asks, "Lyn, do you have someone with you?" he sounds gleeful.

"I only have 42 days, don't exaggerate," I tell Drake, "Have fun with your dad."

I hang up before Bruce or Drake can say anything more.

Twisting around in an attempt to get myself out of the position I'm now stuck in, I see Bruce leaning against his pillow smirking at me.

"As your employer, I feel compelled to reprimand you for taking a sick day when you are perfectly healthy," Bruce says, mocking me with a serious expression.

"Well, employer, you also happen to be in my bed," I retort, placing emphasis on the bed being mine, "And, I think I'm stuck."

"Can I ask what you were trying to do?"

"Answer the phone without waking you," I say, pushing up off the rug but only getting my legs hooked in the sheet, "Clearly I failed. A little help, please?"

Bruce smiles and pulls me back onto the bed. I flop onto my back and close my eyes again, intending to take full advantage of my day off.

"Sorry if I bothered you last night," Bruce says, "Whenever I sleep in that chair I always wake up with a back ache." He sits up and rubs his neck.

"I don't mind. As long as you don't request a back rub," I say.

In reality my hands are itching to take the place of his. Having Bruce shirtless, in bed, next to me, and not because he is bleeding in six different spots on his torso, drains the last of my minimal morning common sense. I resort to clasping my hands behind my head to ward off any compulsive back rubbing.

"I knew you were there, I heard you get in," I continue, "What time was that by the way?"

"Seven."

"In the morning? Catch anyone?"

"Yes and no. I broke up a couple mob fights. The gang wars grow worse every day."

He slowly gets up, stretching as he does, allowing me to admire the muscles on his back. Standing on his toes, he falls into a pushup and performs his morning workout in front of me. I'm torn between closing my eyes and rolling on my side to get a better view. I close my eyes.

"Do you think I should try some pushups?" I ask, "I haven't done one since high school. Though I still do sit-ups whenever I remember."

Bruce finishes and stands up, "Don't strain yourself. You're sick, remember?"

"Better run off then, I might sneeze on you."

"Maybe I could give it to the criminals," Bruce says, pulling on a shirt.

"Going somewhere?" I ask, referring to the shirt.

"The penthouse. To change," he says, "Some people don't have 42 sick days to use up."

"Your entire life is sick days," I retort, "Where is Alfred by the way? Wouldn't he be wondering if you're safe by now?"

"I have no idea. By now he should be giving me his usual disapproving look for sleeping in."

"Food would be nice," I say, thinking of Alfred's breakfast trays. My stomach grumbles in agreement. I may be getting a little spoiled by being friends with a billionaire.

"Don't forget we have that dinner with Marshall tonight," Bruce reminds me, "And I'll send Alfred over when I see him. If I tell him you're sick he'll do anything for you."

"Tell who?" a voice says from behind the curtain. Alfred appears with a tray.

"I'm curious to hear the excuse this time, sir. Half past two is pushing it nearly as far as three," Alfred comments.

"Mob bosses keep strange hours," Bruce says. He downs an entire green protein shake and pulls on his leather jacket.

"I'll take the rest of that off your hands, Alfred," I offer, sitting up in bed. Alfred hands me the tray and steps out.

"I need the motorcycle today," Bruce says, "We should get a second for emergencies."

"Sounds great to me."

"Oh, and Lyn?" Bruce asks, turning to smile teasingly at me.

"Hmm?" I mumble, my mouth brimming with delicious ham and cheese omelet.

"You look adorable when you sleep."

After being stunned into silence for a second, I throw a pillow at him. He ducks out of the curtain and I miss. Lucky for him, I'm enjoying the omelet too much or the sack of stuffing would have been a fork. I finish my breakfast with relish, and set the tray down on the floor for later. In the distance, the lift rises and silence settles over the bunker. Rolling over onto my stomach, I growl my frustration into my pillow. I hear a second person come into the room and jostle the tray.

"Alfred, how can he manage to be the most remarkable, short-sighted, endearing, dim-witted, muffle-headed genius I've ever met, all at once?" I rattle off without taking my head out of the pillow.

"Practice," Bruce says.

I don't move a muscle. Maybe if I don't move, he won't see me.

"I forgot my helmet," he explains with laughter in his voice.

Sensing I'm not going to respond, he takes his helmet and leaves. I don't get out of bed until I'm absolutely certain I'm alone. How can Bruce act affectionate whenever we're out in public, and transition to being 'just friends' as easily as turning off a light bulb? I've tried ignoring my feelings. Clearly that tactic failed. Attempting to sort through my own emotions while 'dating' Bruce Wayne is impossible, so drastic measures must be taken soon.

An idea pops into my brain as I get dressed. Bruce Wayne's tremendous ego would never be able to survive a woman standing him up on a date. Obviously, I should stay home tonight and let my problem solve itself. Breaking up with me would be necessary to protect his reputation.

I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder and march off in the direction of the nearest train station, intending to tell Teresa the good news.

…

As I approach Teresa's tent, I hear voices coming from within. A small slab of wood hangs next to the opening flap with a door handle and the words "knock please" scrawled across it. I knock.

"Lyn, what a surprise!" Teresa says, pulling back the canvas to let me in, "My sister finally consented to visit as well."

"Hey," Jessica says, giving me a small wave.

"Oh, sorry. Am I interrupting?" I ask.

"Please interrupt," Teresa laughs, "We're getting to the point in our conversation that never fails to turn into a sibling tiff."

"You always start it," Jessica accuses Teresa, grinning.

"Aren't you Mr. Fox's secretary?" I ask.

"Hey, you do remember me!" Jessica says, "I thought for sure you would forget our brief conversation. It seems like half the business people who file through that door everyday do."

"How do you think I got into the Wayne Company Picnic on Thursday?" Teresa asks me, "Didn't I tell you Jessica was my sister?"

"No," I say, "And I probably wouldn't have guessed. Frankly, you two look nothing alike."

"That's because I work on my appearance, and the biggest fashion decision little miss vegan tree-hugger over there has ever made is over her 'save the whales' or 'save the old-growth forest' T-shirts," Jessica explains, giving her sister a one armed hug.

"I prefer to concentrate on more important issues such as eradicating homelessness in Gotham over making sure my hair is straight every morning," Teresa argues with a scowl.

"It's all part of playing the cultural game, little sister," Jessica says, "And in the business world I work in, unfair as it is, appearances are very strict." She ruffles her sister's hair and I get the feeling the two of them have been repeating this argument for years.

"Speaking of appearances and playing games, that's actually why I turned up today," I say, taking a deep breath to prepare for the onset of excitement my announcement will probably unleash, "I'm dumping Bruce Wayne and standing him up. Tonight."

A stony silence is most definitely not what I expected.

"You can't dump Bruce Wayne!" Teresa exclaims in shock.

"Why not? You suggested it at least a million times," I say, somewhat baffled at her reaction.

"I've just started getting used to the guy," Teresa protests, "I won't let all that grinning and bearing it go to waste!"

"Well, you'll probably never have to see him again, so consider yourself lucky. I however, will still be stuck with him as a boss," I say, a little glumly.

"What prompted your change of heart?" Teresa asks.

"I'm getting tired of how superficial he is around others," I say truthfully, "The man I know personally and the man in public are two different people. Now I realize that will never change."

"I hear you," Teresa says in a jaded tone, "I knew a lot of guys like that back when I thought dating was a good idea. Relationships are overrated, let me tell you!"

I kindly fail to point out that only a couple days ago she was mooning over Harvey Dent.

"However, this will kind of make things a bit awkward," she continues to say.

"Awkward how?" I ask, then horror widens my eyes, "Please don't tell me you want to date him."

Jessica snickers.

"Never," Teresa says and shudders, "But he did donate a huge amount of money to my cause this morning. The largest anyone has given us. Alfred brought over the check himself."

"And you think Bruce will take it back if I dump him?" I ask, counting my blessings that at least the mystery of the missing Alfred this morning was solved, "No. Bruce would never do that. Don't worry."

Teresa looks apprehensive over her next sentence"…And I may have offered to let you and Bruce borrow a tent to stay here on Thursday night to show solidarity for the cause. Can you believe he actually agreed?" Teresa says, "I thought for sure Bruce Wayne wouldn't be able to survive without at least a flushing toilet. But with the money he is giving us, we're hiring security to protect people from the abductions, so I convinced Alfred it would be perfectly safe to stay one night on site. I highly doubt if he will come without you, since I'm sure any activism on his part is entirely due to your good influence, so…."

"You need me to not leave him pathetically alone at dinner tonight," I finish her sentence.

"Think of the publicity that having the Prince of Gotham stay in our humble tent city will bring us!" Teresa insists, "You can't buy that kind of publicity. Marshall will be eating his words."

"I don't think I could stand one more date with that supercilious man," I admit and then sigh heavily, "But if it's vital to the cause, it's certainly a small sacrifice to make."

"Oh thank goodness!" Teresa cries, flinging her arms around me, "If we succeed in driving up enough support and beating Marshall because of this, I'll be forever in your debt."

"You better win," I say, patting her back, "Trust me, this evening will be miserable. Combine the pretentious side of Bruce oozing out in buckets with Marshall's desperate attempts to get on Bruce's good side, and I may be sick just thinking about it. And won't Bruce's recent donation make Marshall disagreeable at dinner?"

"No, I forgot to tell you," Teresa says, "The donation is completely secret. No one knows except Bruce, me, and everyone living here in the tents. Of course, by proxy that also means every homeless person in Gotham due to the chain of gossip around here, but after we kicked out that informant, no one will go to Marshall with the information. I promise."

"All right then," I say after her statement confirms my fate, "I eagerly anticipate many obsequious speeches from Marshall about the wonders of his new apartment complex and Bruce Wayne's trust fund."

Jessica laughs and smiles at me impishly, "You know, sometimes the best revenge comes giving the person a taste of their own medicine."

"Yeah," I say, "And how would I do that? Trust funds don't spring up overnight so the chances of me becoming a billionaire are pretty slim." Truthfully I know there is a rather large account with my name on it at Gotham City Bank. Nowhere near the billions Bruce Wayne owns but I won't touch a cent of that money, as I told my dad years ago.

"Well, first off, what are you wearing tonight?" Jessica asks. Beside her, Teresa rolls her eyes.

I look down at my plain skirt and top, "This?" I ask.

She gives me a motherly smile, "You want to prove to Bruce you don't need him anymore? My advice: look drop-dead sexy, and act independent. You're good with the independence part, but we're going to need to work on the sexy. I'm going to need some ammunition for this. I'm thinking Prada, and maybe Chanel. I'll be right back." She gets up, grabs her keys from her purse, and disappears out the tent flap.

"My sister, the one person I know who can tell the difference between Prada and Channel," Teresa says dourly.

I raise my eyebrows at Teresa.

"Don't ask," Teresa says, her eyes glazing over with dark memories, "She's been giving me spontaneous makeovers since I was five."

"Well, the person in my life usually responsible for spontaneous makeovers is currently not speaking to me. So I suppose this is a good thing."

"Oh, you wait," Teresa warns, "In the meantime, want to join the chess tournament?"

"Sure, but I haven't played in ages," I say, laughing.

We duck out of Teresa's tent and join the intensely silent crowd in the center of the parking lot. A wide array of spectators watch in awe as Bob moves the aluminum can Queen into checkmate. The woman he's playing against, still in her business suit after a day at the office, groans good-humouredly and dramatically knocks her King piece down 'dead'. Teresa and I pen our names onto the roster, reset the pieces, and we face off across the board with me taking black. I have a hunch about who will end up winning. Sure enough, although my dark knight fights valiantly, I'm no match for Teresa's experience. I shuffle off to sit at the edge of the group with Bob as the next contestants set up.

"I'm rooting for you now," I whisper sideways to Bob.

"I'm winning," he says, "Memorized lots of chess books in library."

Across the circle I see Teresa talking with Jessica and pointing at me. Jessica waves and holds up a bag, grinning.

"I have to go," I tell Bob, getting up. The next time I look over at Jessica, Teresa has magically disappeared.

"Ready?" Jessica asks.

I nod, "Where did Teresa go?"

"Oh, she's talented at avoiding me when I have designer clothes to be tried on," Jessica says happily.

"I still can't believe you're sisters," I say, chuckling as we reach the tent.

"I love Teresa, I really do," Jessica says and hands me a dress to try on, "We both want to change the world. But we don't often see eye-to-eye. She's determined to demand change from the bottom and offer no concessions, which works for people with loud personalities." She shakes her head at the first dress and hands in a second. The hemline is even shorter.

"I prefer to fight my way to the top, and work changes downward," Jessica continues to explain, "Which requires a good deal more finesse, fitting in, and looking the other way sometimes. The two of us started a race in since high school to see who succeeds first. Of course, neither of us knows what success will look like."

I quietly receive a third dress after a wince from Jessica.

"I think Teresa wants to be president someday. I'm happier with smaller goals, myself. The little changes count more than people think," Jessica says.

I step out of the tent and Jessica claims the dress fits perfectly.

"Now for your hair and makeup," Jessica says, shooing me in the tent, "This might take a while."

It does. I'm forced to sit there for two hours, unable to even see the results in a mirror. Jessica doesn't pronounce me finished until Alfred arrives to pick me up.

Bruce's fancy vehicle stands out starkly among the tents when Alfred pulls into the construction site. Alfred graciously opens the door for me and refrains from commenting on my attire. I slide into the back seat while ensuring my skirt doesn't ride up and make my legs stick to the leather.

Bruce barely spares a glance at me before returning to his phone. Then he does a double-take.

"Am I right in guessing there is a bigger reason we're fashionably late?" I ask casually, slowly crossing my legs and letting the skirt slide up just a smidge.

If Bruce doesn't stop staring mutely soon, I'll break character and end up in tears of laughter.

"I spent the past couple hours attempting to track down Crane's source for his drugs," Bruce says, composing himself and turning back to the phone.

I grin. After sketching his silhouette so many times, the line of his neck betrays his hidden discomfort.

"Did you learn anything?" I ask.

"Nothing useful," he says.

"Well, I learned I am horrible at chess, but quite good at being independent, and that staging a protest is not nearly as filled with excitement as I had expected."

Bruce laughs humorlessly, "I suppose I learned one thing on my outing with Marshall today. He takes losing very badly. One way or another, he will crush Teresa and the opposition. You should warn her."

"Are you saying he would threaten her?"

"He hinted at having access to creative ways for taking care of bad situations. It could mean anything. An accident in the camp, a mugging, or an attack by the very people she represents."

"No threat will stop Teresa," I say proudly.

"Exactly what worries me," he agrees.

I lounge back in my seat, stretching my legs out gracefully while extending my unusually high heeled foot.

"Did you know Jessica was Teresa's sister?" I ask Bruce, nonchalantly adjusting the strap of the shoe to draw attention to it.

"I did," Bruce says, deliberately not looking at me, "Someone once told me I should get to know the people who help run my company."

"Good for you," I say, surprised by his answer, "I'll admit I was unaware of the family connection until today. She is also an avid follower of fashion," I explain, letting a knowing smile slip onto my face, "She helped me get ready to impress Marshall tonight."

"I noticed," Bruce says, his eyes staring right through me, exactly as if I was another faceless pretty woman on his arm. If I wanted to see how he would react to my act as an air headed stereotype, I guess I got my answer. He turned on his playboy act the minute I stepped into the car, and it doesn't appear to be falling anytime soon. Unless I manage to break it.

"Well," I respond, willing my eyes to sparkle, "I'm sure tonight will be fun."

Bruce's true reaction flashes across his face, but the spasm is so fleeting I can't discern any meaning. The door to the car opens and I accept the assistance of the man waiting for me to get out. If I attempted it on my own, I probably would have fallen flat on my face thanks to the heels. Suddenly I find new meaning in the purpose of doormen. As soon as I straighten up, a million flashes start going off in my face. I take a half step backward, stunned, and my composure breaks. Bruce sidles up next to me and slips his arm around mine, grinning triumphantly. I laugh in his face. Not my usual laugh, but one that would fit in with the chinking of wine glasses, twitter of conversation, and swish of expensive fabrics associated with high society. I turn my face to the cameras, flip my straightened hair, and gracefully swing my hips closer to Bruce. The cameras continue snapping around us, reminding me of how different the tabloid reporter's reaction to me had been a week ago. Flatten my hair, shorten my skirt, and add a handsome, rich man, and suddenly the photographers interest in me grows exponentially. Sparing a glance at Bruce's face I notice the smile remains, but his eyes are sullen.

Arm in arm, we sashay into the dining room of the Grand Concourse. Walking in Jessica's heels borders on being an art form, requiring an alluring sway of the hips that draws the gaze of many men waiting in the lobby. Bruce stiffens next to me, clunking through his movements in our little game more like a robot than a man. When we reach the table, Ron Marshall greets us enthusiastically without noticing Bruce's odd behavior. Marshall also graciously fails to complain about our late arrival.

"Sorry for nearly missing the reservation," I say to Ron Marshall, "I'm afraid I only just woke up a couple hours ago."

Marshall raises his eyebrows. "That's quite late in the day," he says, chuckling.

"Yes, someone kept me up until seven in the morning," I accuse Bruce, taking his hand and giving him a suggestive wink paired with a sensuous smile.

Marshall's wife snorts into her wine glass.

The rosy glow on Bruce's cheeks matches his wine perfectly. Not to be beaten, he takes a fake sip of wine and leans in close to me. Sweeping a lock of hair out of the way, he whispers in my ear and casually rests his arm across the back of my seat.

"What are you doing?" he asks with a melting smirk.

I turn my face to him and study him coyly over my shoulder. Our lips are inches apart.

"Having fun," I taunt, "The Prince of Gotham's pastime, correct?"

He forces a laugh.

"Marshall's phone is in his right pocket of the jacket he just took off," he says.

I giggle and glance down at my hands, sneaking a side look at Marshall's jacket. If I lean down to get my purse, the phone will be within easy grasp.

"Excuse me, I have to use the restroom," I tell the table at large. Reaching for my purse, I knock it over, spilling the contents out onto the floor. "Oh dear!" I simper, kneeling down and scooping up stray items. Marshall flags down a waiter to help me, never intending to get down on his own hands and knees, which was exactly what I anticipated. In the space of time it takes a waiter to hurry over, I manage to pluck Marshall's phone from his jacket and slip it into my purse. The waiter then swoops down on me and pulls me too my feet and proceeds to pick up my mess for me.

"Thank you," I say, taking my purse back and slipping him a $20 for having to deal with Ron Marshall all night. I know that man probably never tips well. I have grown very sympathetic after years of part time waitress. As I walk back to the restrooms, Bruce stands up behind me and traces my footsteps.

We reach a hallway adorned with gilded wall fixtures and ceiling decorations. The Grand Concourse wins for the fanciest bathroom entrance I've ever seen. Once I'm certain we are alone, I pivot on the spot and fix Bruce with a glare.

"Why did I just steal the phone of the biggest real estate developer in Gotham?" I inquire.

"I need to get a closer look at his financials," Bruce replies, gesturing for the phone.

I slap it into his hand, "And who will be blamed if he finds it missing? Most likely the waiter."

"No, you found it on the floor and thought it was yours," Bruce says, calmly punching numbers into the phone.

"Do you think even my character is stupid enough to do that? Mistaking someone else's phone for my own seems a little dense even for your usual caliber of girlfriend."

"My usual?" Bruce questions, raising an eyebrow.

"You know what I mean. The women you dated before you started going after archivists. You clearly didn't pick them based on intellect."

"No I chose the person whose outfit went best with my suit," Bruce retorts sarcastically, "It wasn't all appearances, Lyn, or I would have never picked you."

That shuts me up for a minute. I'm unsure if I should be insulted or flattered.

"And I don't know who you think you're fooling with this act," he continues.

"The Marshalls fell for it," I retort, immediately becoming defensive, "And I believe I'm keeping up the façade better than you. You're slipping a lot tonight."

He narrows his eyes at me, "I'm a little distracted."

"Why?" I ask with innocent poise, "You had no difficulty joining the charade with your other girlfriends."

"They weren't you," he protests.

"And what makes me different?" I challenge him.

He takes my arm to pull me closer and search through my eyes. We stare at each other for eons, neither willing to cave in until Marshall's phone rudely interrupts.

"Don't answer it," I say automatically. He gives me a look as if that were obvious.

"I don't recognize the number," he observes, showing me.

I shake my head, "I don't know. But I really do have to go to the bathroom, so while you forward all his information to your phone, I think I'll do what we supposedly came here for."

I smile sweetly at him and disappear into the women's room. The bathroom proves to be as ornate as the hallway promises. A woman stands next to the sink, waiting to hand me a towel after I wash my hands. I grin at her; the type of disarming grin that lets a person know when it's us against them.

"Busy night?" I ask.

"Yes," she says, a little flustered.

I apply a new layer of lipstick that doesn't look nearly as smooth as when Jessica did it.

"I hate this stuff," I mumble, my mouth shaped awkwardly as I try not to poke a tooth with the stick.

The washroom lady giggles, "I never wear it unless I have to."

"I never thought being a socialite would be so difficult. All this upkeep," I say, dragging a brush through my hair. My hair retains weed-like characteristics with the capability of springing back even more unruly and wild after any attempts at taming.

"You're Bruce Wayne's girlfriend, right?" she asks, nervously.

I turn to stare, shocked at being recognized.

"I mean, your face looks a little like hers," the woman rambles, "I saw her pictures in the tabloids."

"Uh," I stutter, "Yeah, I'm Lynnet Pearl." I hold out a hand to shake.

She hands me a towel, "It's amazing to meet you. Must be glamorous, being Bruce Wayne's girlfriend."

"Oh no, I'm not glamorous," I say, "A glorified secretary, really."

"It's like a Cinderella story!" she sighs wistfully, "How romantic."

I laugh despite myself, "Yeah, romantic." I wish.

"And you're an artist too, right?" she asks hesitantly.

"Barely," I admit, "What's your name?" I sit on the counter and pull out my sketchbook.

"Michelle," she says, "I'm an artist too. A photographer."

"And this job helps pay the bills?" I ask, "We all have those. The curse of the artist, I'm afraid." I open the book to a blank page and ready my pencil, "Do you mind?"

"Not at all," Michelle says, blushing, "I thought you did high society portraits."

"Between you and me, I've been doing too many of those lately. I forgot how important simple sketches are," I say.

Fifteen minutes later I walk out of the washroom feeling sober from whatever high I had gained acting out my part. Bruce confronts me as soon as I get out, holding up Marshall's phone.

"How gentlemanly, waiting for me," I comment sarcastically, "Not sure if it fit's the playboy persona though."

"I think we should leave."

"In the middle of dinner? How rude," I reply. Behind Bruce's head I catch sight of Marshall coming toward the bathrooms. "Don't look behind you," I warn Bruce, "We have company."

He pockets the phone and casts me a glare that clearly places all the blame on me.

"How are we going to explain what has taken so long?" Bruce asks.

"We could go with the obvious solution," I offer.

"Which is?" he asks skeptically.

At least he'll remember this time.

I take a step closer and run my fingers through his hair. Bruce watches me without showing any expression. I tilt my head, lean in, and kiss him. Our bodies meld together, and for once the multiple identities, entanglements, and complexities align. After drowning in the evening's shallowness and fakery, our embrace feels real.

Bruce takes a step closer, his knee slipping between my legs. I press further into his body despite there being no distance between us. My mind replays the first kiss we shared, and how muddled my feelings were afterwards. But now I can feel Bruce's longing behind his lips. Whether his need remains purely physical or more intimate, I can't tell, but I do know our pretending ended the minute we touched.

I wish I could stay locked in the kiss forever, wrapped snug in the warmth of Bruce's body. I'm aware that when it ends, I'll lose Bruce again, back behind the sham. In our momentary world of two, Rachel Dawes, Batman, and any other distractions disappear. But until I know for sure he returns my feelings, I can't let myself get caught up in his games. For once, I want Bruce to know what it feels like to have one's emotions be used in a larger plot of someone else's doing. Ultimately, I suppose what I decide to do is pure revenge.

Under my eyelid I watch Marshall disappear into the bathroom while shaking his head and chuckling at us. Brusquely I step away from Bruce, extricate his arm from around my waist, and straighten my dress. Shaking the snarls out of my hair, I start to walk away without letting myself spare even a glance back at him.

"Marshall left. Now is the perfect time to return his phone," I say over my shoulder. I can hear Bruce's footsteps following me, and I'm dying to know his reaction, but damned if I will blow my cover. I slide back into my seat at our table and surreptitiously slip Marshall's phone into his jacket.

"Apologies," I say, "There was quite a line."

I smile radiantly at Bruce. He grimaces back. In return, I make a point of outrageously pantomiming wiping lipstick off my face. Bruce scowls slightly, but takes the hint and wipes the rose color off his lips with a napkin. I declare revenge successful.

Marshall returns later and rejoins the conversation, completely unaware his phone was missing temporarily. The exchange between Bruce and Marshall continues. Bruce graciously accepts the invitation to the golf tournament and writes a check for the entrance fee on the spot. Marshall extols Bruce's charitable nature and pontificates on the great value of investing in real estate development. Marshall's wife, whose name I will probably never recall, downs her fifth glass of wine while remaining steadily silent. And I amuse myself by estimating when the multi-colored decorative candle will melt all the top wax and start in on the bottom color. The candle is alarmingly large and hard to miss. The red wax spilling over the edge snakes down the blue wax base, coagulating at the bottom in a bloody, purple-tinged pool. I guesstimate ten minutes maximum before the running wax turns blue.

My eyes continually flick towards the candle in between throwing flirtatious glances at Bruce and engaging smiles at Marshall. So, when the wick shoots a few sparks the moment it transitions from red to blue, I refrain from jumping out of my seat unlike Marshall's wife. Marshall laughs and goes to put out the candle with his fingers, but the wick flares into a larger, brighter flame. Bruce pushes himself back from the table with a thin layer of surprise over his face. Behind the surprise, I sense his mind quickly calculating the situation. He recognizes the spark and flame from somewhere. The cries of alarm from the tables surrounding us suggest other groups are having similar problems with their centerpieces. Mass panic sets in when the candles begin to spurt a thick, venomous fog.

"Oh shit!" Marshall exclaims, stumbling away from the table. His wife is already out the door. Bruce staggers backward, appearing to be nothing more than a terrified, soft billionaire. I grope my way towards him through the heavy gas. My free hand searches my purse for two antidotes to Crane's toxin. I administer one to myself and pass the other to Bruce while wrapping my arms around him in fright.

"I believe I have an appointment with Ron Marshall and Bruce Wayne!" Jonathan Crane's familiar voice screams over the noise of the crowd.

In the corner of my eye I notice Marshall's butt disappearing underneath the tablecloth. Out of the mist steps a skinny man in a threadbare suit, his face concealed by a cloth mask.

"I think the Scarecrow is about to make another high profile abduction," I whisper in Bruce's ear. He squeezes my hand in return. I barely stop myself from grinning. Crane has no idea who he is about to kidnap.

The Scarecrow advances on us. Bruce and I back away, clinging to each other. The scarecrow raises his hand and releases more of the toxin. Bruce steps in front of me to take the full blast.

"Bruce Wayne," the scarecrow bellows, grabbing Bruce by his collar and yanking him off balance, "Your development of a concern for the homeless concerns me."

Bruce's eyes widen. I watch with amusement, admiring his ability to counterfeit fear. A goon of the Scarecrow shoves me out of the way, forcefully ties Bruce's hands behind his back, and shoots a cable gun through the glass domed ceiling of the Grand Concourse. Once the kidnappers and Bruce lift off the ground and disappear into the fog, I drop all pretence of distress and snatch up my purse. However, before I leave I notice a plastic syringe underneath a chair. I stoop to pick up Bruce's copy of the antidote and discover it full. I curse under my breath.

Perhaps, for the first time in his life, the Prince of Gotham was not faking anything.

My immediate reaction is to call Alfred. Then it occurs to me, the Scarecrow specifically targeted Bruce Wayne. The logical first step in Crane's plan would be to ensure the butler wouldn't interfere or act as an escape route. I break into a run. In the crowded parking lot, I waste precious minutes before I finally spot Alfred's slumped form in the front seat of a car. I dash up to the door and pound on the window. No movement inside. Trying the door handle, I find it's unlocked. Alfred starts to slide out of the seat, mumbling incoherently and looking half gone. I catch him before he falls and push him back in. I give Bruce's antidote to the butler, hoping I'll be able to come up with another before I find Bruce. Not having time to wait for Alfred to recover, I yank open the back door and drag Alfred out of the front. A book falls off his lap and lands on the pavement. Desperately thanking all of Bruce's training sessions for what little strength I possesses, I heave Alfred into the back seat and lie him down, buckling him in as best as I can. As I pull out of the parking lot a thunderclap booms overhead and rain starts sprinkling down on the hood of the car. Just what I needed, a summer thunderstorm.

I pull up to the tent city and park in front of Teresa's camp. The rain falls hard, threatening to drown the cluster of tents. Around the edges people have tried inventive ways of warding off the flood waters. Thankfully, Teresa's seems to be on the highest ground. I dash in, interrupting a rousing sibling rivalry in a game of cards.

"Hey Lyn, how'd it go?" Teresa asks, smiling. Her smile disappears when she sees my face.

"Teresa, I think I need your help," I say, pulling a blanket off her camp bed.

"With what?" Teresa asks, looking slightly worried, "Did Wayne have one too many drinks?"

I laugh bitterly. "No the Scarecrow hit the restaurant we were in," I inform her, "He was after Ron Marshall, but he was perfectly happy to capture Bruce Wayne instead. He and his men have taken Bruce underground."

"Oh," Teresa says, laughter gone from her face, "I'm sorry, Lyn. I know you cared about him." She doesn't get up from her pillow on the floor.

"I'm going to get him back," I protest, "You sound as if he's dead."

"Lyn," Teresa says, standing up and placing a hand on my shoulder, "Of these abductions, only the high profile ones got published in the paper, and even those people are still missing. Those whose faces wouldn't sell newspapers or TV spots, they were simply forgotten. The only person who has been seen again is that Cardinal on Sunday. And I think that's only because the Batman happened to be there to save him. This is Gotham. You should be prepared for the worst. I highly doubt the Batman will go out of his way to save some dandy."

"Which is why Bruce needs me to do it for him," I counter. I pull away from her touch and return to the car. Teresa follows me.

"You're going into the sewers alone? In that outfit? At this time of night?" she demands, "Are you insane?"

"They got Alfred," I say, opening the door to show her the butler still unconscious in the back of the car, "I need you to watch him for me. Call Lucius Fox if his condition worsens." I give her Fox's phone number.

"Lyn, you're not listening to me," Teresa says. She grabs two corners of the blanket from me and helps me wrap Alfred to keep him dry.

"I'm not going alone," I tell her, "I came to find Bob." I take Alfred's feet and Teresa supports his head. Together we drag him out of the car.

"That's not what I meant" Teresa asks, grinning at me across from Alfred, "I'm coming with you."

Jessica holds the tent flap open with an umbrella while we stagger inside under Alfred's weight. Once Alfred is safe inside and tucked in Teresa's bed, I turn to her.

"You want to come with me?" I ask, hastily trying to come up with an excuse against the idea. The last thing I need is someone finding out about my connection, and Bruce's, to Batman. I run a hand through my hair nervously. The curls spring back into their usual messy state.

"Do you really think you can find the people who have disappeared?" Teresa asks, breathlessly anxious.

"Bob knows every inch of that sewer," I promise her, "I'll search all night if I have to."

"And you're certain we'll find them in the underground?" Teresa asks.

"That's where they tried to take Cardinal O'Fallon," I explain, "I was at the church with Eleanor when it happened."

"Then we're wasting time! Let's find Bob," Teresa says, snatching her coat and slipping out of the tent. I follow swiftly, pulling on a trench coat I borrowed from the back of Alfred's car.

"Wait!" Jessica yells, a flash of lightning illuminating the tent dramatically, "Just hold on a second. There's an unconscious butler in our tent, and Teresa said something about an abduction, and would someone explain what is going on!"

"No time. Watch Alfred," I say before running after Teresa. Without Bob to guide me to the scarecrow's lair, I know I have little hope of running across it on my own. Especially with Alfred unable to direct from his computer. Yet surely Batman can get himself out of this mess. Grimly I recall Sunday night with a shudder. I don't want to take that chance. Perhaps Batman could, but the Scarecrow captured Bruce Wayne instead of the caped crusader. And Bruce Wayne is stubborn enough to keep up his act until it's too late.

Lost in thought, I collide with Teresa. She grabs me and holds me back. In front of us a dark shape advances, silhouetted by the street lamp.

"Who's there?" Teresa yells, trying to make out the person's face.

Help, help, help," says a voice I recognize.

"Bob!" I exclaim, breaking free from Teresa and staggering towards him.

"Batman sent me," Bob tells me.

Teresa laughs, exchanging an amused glance with me.

"Maybe Batman did," I tell her, "For all we know, Batman could be one of the many homeless men in Gotham."

"True. Hopefully, if we get into any trouble, he'll come help us himself," Teresa adds.

"We can hope," I reply, "Let's go Bob."

Bob immediately takes the lead. We walk briskly, even though some impulse in me desperately wishes to run. But I know running will only draw attention to us. And walking is hard enough in the heels that I forgot to take off back in the tent. I curse myself for not stopping to think. I blame the rain. The mix of cold with the heat of the summer night numbs my entire body. I can't even feel my feet anymore.

Eventually we reach the entrance to an old subway and the Scarecrow's lair by keeping to the shadows. I expect to be interrupting the same ritual performed in front of a mob with Cardinal O'Fallon, but the cavern is deserted.

"Well," Teresa says, examining the large crater left by the explosion on Sunday, "What next?"

I'm at a loss of what to do. Bob acts similarly confused, wandering around while staring obsessively at the floor.

"Split up?" I suggest, "You can take Bob, since I have no idea if he has a cell phone or is inclined to use it. And if either of us finds anything, call."

Teresa agrees. We are about to put our plan into action when Bob starts jabbing emphatically at the ground.

"Here!" he calls us over, "Dirt!"

Teresa gets there first, overturning a layer of dust and picking up a small, round object. I hobble up to her, my shoes making it difficult to run in the mud.

"Is that a button?" I ask.

"What else could it be? Pretty fancy for a button though" Teresa says. She places the button in my hand.

"Hold on," I say, staring at the button incredulously, "I recognize this. That's the Wayne family crest." I watched Bruce painstakingly sew the button back on enough times to recognize it anywhere.

"I vote we go that way, then," Teresa says.

"Have you considered the button might be bait for a trap?" I ask hesitantly.

"Lyn, they have Bruce, pretty boy, Wayne. Who else could possibly raise more money for ransom?"

We come to a second junction. Teresa immediately bounds forward and begins checking the ground around each tunnel.

"Aha!" she exclaims, holding up another gold button triumphantly.

I take the button from her and slip it into my pocket. At the rate Bruce is dropping buttons, he'll spend months sewing them back on. I take the lead and hurry down the tunnel, hoping Bruce's button trail is part of some plan.

At the third junction, my painter's eyes, trained to spot differences in color, immediately drift towards the next button. The last button, I realize with dread. I snatch it up and start to run.

"There they are!" Teresa cries, pointing off in the distance. She grabs my hand and ducks underneath the nearest pipe to hide. "Your boyfriend led us straight to the abduction victims!"

I study the scene before us. A group of six is tied securely with rope. One man wearing a ruined suit kneels in a separate corner from the rest. His hands are chained to a pipe behind his back. Every angle of his body admits defeat.

"Where is the Scarecrow?" I wonder out loud. Teresa and I exchange worried glances.

"Should we wait?" Teresa asks.

"No," I say, shaking my head emphatically, "No, we should free as many people as we can. They can help overpower the Scarecrow if he comes back."

Teresa nods, "Do you know how to pick locks?"

"Are you kidding? I went to a boarding school with a curfew for eight years of my life. I'm an expert at picking locks," I tell her, pulling out a few pins from my hair.

"Then you take Bruce, and I'll get everyone else," Teresa says, flipping a Swiss army knife open.

I nod. We make eye contact, both of us visibly nervous. I sweep the clearing for any sign of Crane one last time, and then hurtle out from behind the pipe. , I skid to a stop, spraying a layer of muck on Bruce's back.

"Sorry!" I whisper, crouching behind him and getting to work on the lock.

"Lyn?" Bruce sounds startled.

"Nice to see you too," I tell him, focused almost entirely on the ancient lock in front of me, "I think Crane must have pilfered this chain from Gotham Museum of Natural History."

"I expected Gordon," Bruce comments, humor in his voice, "How did Teresa get involved?"

"I had to go to the tent city. You think anyone other than Bob could possibly find this place?" I ask, incredulously.

"I did leave a trail."

"And the trail was invaluable. Teresa found the buttons. I recognized them immediately. Otherwise we would have been lost forever down here."

"Be quick," Bruce warns, craning his neck in an attempt to see what I'm doing, "Crane left to find a rope to hang me with. He should be back soon."

"You try picking a lock that dates back to the dark ages, in a dim blue light, coming from a sewer grate, and then you can complain about my speed," I counter.

He chuckles, "And Teresa is giving us odd looks."

"She has to hack through ropes and untie a few knots. I have to wait until…" I hear a soft click, "That." I wiggle the hairpin only to find it stuck in the lock. The chain rattles a tinkling laugh at me.

"Did you get it?" Bruce asks.

"This is significantly more difficult than the padlock on the gate I used to break open when sneaking into my dormitory at night during my grade school days," I explain, yanking the hairpin and snapping it in half, "I also only have these useless hairpins. Do you have a lock pick on you?"

"Yes, I always keep one in my suit. You never know when you're going to be captured by a Scarecrow and chained to a sewer pipe."

I glare at him, "I'm trying to save your life here."

"My life's not in danger." he scoffs.

"Well, I didn't know what to think. With Alfred in an unconscious stupor, recovering from poison, and you not taking the antidote, I was a little concerned."

"Alfred's poisoned?" Bruce asks, snapping to attention.

"Crane gave him the toxin too," I explain, "He'll be fine. I gave him your antidote."

Bruce heaves a relieved sigh, "Thank you. I didn't consider Crane would go after anyone but me."

"Wait," I pause in my attack on the lock, "you suspected this?"

"Why do you think I waited until today to give Teresa all that money? And spread the news through the homeless?"

"You planned this?" the anger rises in my voice, "Without telling me?"

"Lyn, you're not a very good actress. And I trusted you to help Gordon find me. I needed you to be convincing. I didn't expect you to not call the police."

"Bruce Wayne, explain yourself," I say sternly.

"Have you undone the lock yet?" he shifts around so he half faces me.

"No," I say, dropping the chain, "And I won't until you give me a good enough reason for risking yourself like this. Or I'll leave you here and let Crane hang you. We'll see how well you can play Houdini."

"I needed to learn Crane's suppliers for the drug. Which I did successfully, minutes before you got here," he says haughtily, "Stop arguing and get back in character, Teresa looks suspicious."

I glance over at her. Teresa has half the group untied and the four of them are working on freeing the last three. Sensing my stare, she throws a confused look my way.

"And what character would that be?" I ask him, glaring accusatorily, "The archivist, the vigilante's assistant, or the Prince of Gotham's girlfriend? Maybe I'm tired of these layers of confusion and living a lie. Since I have you here so conveniently trapped, promise we can go back to being just friends, publicly and privately, and then I'll let you out of these chains."

"The fake relationship was the only excuse I could come up with…" he trails off, looking uncomfortable, and not because of the metal around his wrists.

"Excuse? Excuse for what? If you think…"

"Excuse for spending more time with you as Bruce Wayne," he interrupts me.

Stunned into silence, I stare at him blankly.

"As Batman, I needed you. You have ways of getting information I don't, of observing things I don't. Playboys don't befriend young, attractive employees of their own company, they date them. And I admit I enjoyed having someone who actually knew me by my side when acting out my public persona became necessary. Your friendship kept me sane."

"Bruce…"

"Please unlock that lock," he says, his eyes begging me with a dash of humor, "If you were Gordon I would have been released minutes ago."

I laugh, "Why don't you start dating him if he's so useful?"

"I don't think he'd have me," Bruce says, a grin tugging at the side of his mouth.

I smile in spite of the situation. A torchlight flickers from behind me and the lock is lit up with perfect clarity. Unfortunately, along with the light comes a throaty yell, "Stop them!"

An entire mob races into the tunnel. The mob ignores me, focusing on Teresa's group, who are all free. I duck behind Bruce, pulling the lock closer to continue working on it. Teresa's group and the Scarecrow's army collide.

"No! I refuse to senselessly fight people I used to consider partners in my cause!" Teresa's guttural yell echoes over the sounds of the fist fight. She turns and, screaming in rage, throws her knife as hard as she can into the dark recesses of the tunnel. The fighting stops. Jonathan Crane saunters up to Teresa. Crane's fearful followers wait anxiously for something more terrifying to happen. Crane lifts up his hand, holding his hood.

"Have you seen my mask?" he asks, smiling pleasantly.

"It's nothing but a sack," Teresa replies, disdainfully.

I nearly jump up to warn her but Bruce catches my arm.

"It may not look very scary to you, but to crazies…" Crane starts to pull the mask over his head.

"I don't see a scary mask," Teresa cries fiercely, "I see a dirty scrap of fabric that a coward hides behind to cover his own insecurities. A coward who beats those already beaten down, and takes advantage of people who have seen more than their fair share of kicks, insults, and demeaning attitudes. Crazies, you call them? I say they're more human than you."

The scarecrow lifts his arm to spray the toxin, but Teresa catches him in the act. Snatching his fist, she twists his fingers around. He screams in pain, Teresa tightens her grip, unknowingly releasing the drug straight into the scarecrow's face. Shocked, Teresa doesn't move as Crane screams in fear, crumpling to her feet as the spray continues. The dose he receives would have been fatal to anyone with less constant exposure to the compound. The people surrounding Teresa watch the scarecrow's descent into further madness. The ones under the influence of Crane's toxin imagine him as a new threat, and scramble, yelling, out of the tunnel, leaving Teresa and the abducted men and women alone.

Teresa heaves a sigh and turns to her friends, "Is everyone alright?"

"Thank you, my dear," an older woman says while using a pipe to leverage herself to a standing position, "I thought I would be trapped down here until the last of my days."

"It's Larraine, correct?" Teresa asks, smiling, "You're one of my heroes."

The woman laughs, "I think you were the hero today."

While the two are talking, and everyone's attention remains on Teresa, I watch Crane stirring on the ground. My scrutiny gives me a split second advantage when he launches into the air and takes off running in my direction. I emerge from my hiding place and step directly into his path. Using Bruce's technique, I take advantage of Crane's momentum to sweep him off his feet and plunge him to the ground. I aim an elbow strike at his head, knocking him out. I pause, hovering with my hand still clenched in the back of Crane's suit, not quite believing what I accomplished. I glance up to find Bruce staring at me, my disbelief reflected in his face. I grin at him.

"Lyn, unchain your boyfriend and we can get out of here!" Teresa says, breaking our reverie.

I comply quickly by plucking another hairpin out of my hair and working it into the lock. With the added torchlight, I'm able to get it open within a minute. Bruce stands and lets the chains fall off his wrists, rubbing them gingerly.

"Finally," he says, smiling down on me.

"Sorry, I was a little distracted," I say, flicking my eyes at Crane's prone form.

"I told you there was a reason I picked you," he replies, his eyes triumphant.

"I never really doubted you; I just wanted to hear you say it."

"Just kiss and let's go," Teresa interjects, gesturing out of the tunnel.

Bruce and I immediately become awkward and avoid eye contact.

"You two have the weirdest relationship I've ever witnessed," Teresa pronounces, and turns her back on us, ushering the rest of the group out.

"Help me get these chains on Crane," Bruce instructs me when everyone is out of sight.

"Leaving a present for Gordon?" I ask.

"Only fair, considering he missed all the fun."

Bruce props Crane up against the wall and I jam the lock.

"They'll have to cut that lose," I say, proudly.

"So, does our newfound friendship mean I'm attending Marshall's golf tournament alone?" Bruce asks.

"Oh, I think I can survive one more date with you after tonight's events," I reply. We start to follow Teresa's path out of the tunnel. After a couple steps an enormous, demanding pain shoots up from my feet. I cringe and catch Bruce's shoulder to maintain balance.

"What is it? Did Crane hurt you?" Bruce asks, wrapping an arm around me to support most of my weight.

"No, I don't think it was Crane," I say, lifting a foot, "I think it was me." I show him the back of my heel.

"Is that a smear of blood?" Bruce asks.

I gingerly peel the shoe off my foot. A heel sized patch of skin comes off with it, opening up an oozing blister. I make some extremely creative faces.

"Definitely blood," I confirm, "I didn't even notice."

"How could you not notice your shoes carving a hole into your heel?" Bruce asks.

"I had bigger things on my mind," I hiss, trying to stick the shoe back on. I place the tiniest amount of weight on the foot and wince. Now the pain is rather unbearable. Funny how the mind works.

"Lyn," Bruce sighs.

"I can walk," I say and take a step, "Okay," deep breath, "maybe I can hobble."

Without a word Bruce sweeps me off my feet and into his arms. He takes off my high heeled shoes and drops them to the ground.

"You are never allowed to wear those again," he says, carrying me through the tunnel.

"You are never allowed to plan to get yourself abducted without consulting me first," I respond.

"Fair enough."  
"Those were Jessica's designer heels by the way. I suspect you owe her some money."

"Your blood destroyed the shoes. I disposed of them for her."

"In the grand scheme of things, neglecting to tell someone important information hardly measures up to wearing the wrong kind of shoes. You owe me, and I don't mean merely paying for the shoes. Plus I spilled the blood saving your butt, Batboy."

He gives me a look.

"Batman," I amend graciously, resting my head against his shoulder.

He smiles, "What do I owe you?"

"I'll think of something later," I tell him and close my eyes, listening to the gentle thumping of his heart.


	27. Week 4:Wednesday

A/N: Saw the trailer, squealed, and promptly decided time needs to go faster! I can't wait for the Dark Knight to rise! I will need to continue writing to keep myself from going crazy with anticipation! I'm so excited I'm inserting 'batman' into everyday conversation and annoying my coworkers. YAY!

Okay, with that out of my system, I can admit that I'm extremely nervous about posting this chapter. I stayed up until 3 in the morning editing this. Work is gonna be miserable today and require lots of caffeine. Anyway, if I did my job on this story right, it'll fly, but if I didn't and things aren't ready, it'll fail miserably. SO! let me know if you support this development with even a simple yes or no review (though longer constructive criticism or praise is especially wonderful). I really do take all your input into consideration when working out the planning of my story! Speaking of reviews, thank you to AngelQueen for the description of Bruce as a puppy! ;)

Also, you know you're spending too much time on Tumblr when you accidentally type the website's name instead of the name of Nolan's version of the bat-mobile. And then get confused when Word highlights Tumblr in red.

And I listened to "Scars" by Anna Nalick on repeat for most of this chapter. It's a really lovely song and the lyrics fit Bruce/Lyn well.

Wednesday:

It's three in the morning by the time Bruce and I make it to the subway opening, sort out the obligatory newspaper reporters, recount events to the police, return to Teresa's tent, borrow size 9 flip-flops from a generous tent-dweller, and safely transport an unconscious but steadily recovering Alfred back to Bruce's penthouse. Of course, an hour earlier I had already decided I would be missing another day of work. For the first time my usual excuse that I'm too exhausted after saving my boss' life will be publicly known.

"Thank goodness this is the last we'll see of Crane," I confess to Bruce as we pull up to the apartment. A squad of doormen jumps out to usher Alfred's stretcher from the backseat of the car and into the lobby.

"Hopefully," Bruce sighs, his eyes anxiously following the doormen as they struggle with the stretcher.

"What do you mean, hopefully?" I ask apprehensively. We stand aside to let the stretcher take the elevator first and wait restlessly on a very stiff couch.

"Crane has a record of breaking out," Bruce explains wryly, "Especially if he is transferred to Arkham again."

"You're Bruce Wayne; couldn't you buy the asylum and fix things?" I ask.

Bruce laughs mirthlessly, "Most billionaires are not in the habit of buying insane asylums."

"Perhaps you could start a trend," I suggest in a whisper as a group of late night partiers shambles through the front door. Bruce gives me a half smile and rests his arm across my shoulders. To any casual observer we'd appear to be a happy couple calmly waiting for the elevator. The mud betrays us.

"How are your heels?" Bruce asks in concern.

"Healing," I reply, pulling a long face.

He snorts and the corners of his mouth tilt upward.

"Actually they stopped hurting after I put the temporary bandages on to stop the bleeding at the camp. One bandage appears to have soaked through however," I add, lifting up a foot, "I'll have to change them when we get upstairs."

Bruce nods.

A few minutes later the elevator arrives and we dodge drunken elbows to secure a space before the doors close. At the top Bruce tips the waiting doormen and instructs them to leave Alfred on the couch. Once they go back downstairs, Bruce lifts Alfred with the same ease he did me, and carries him to the back of the penthouse. I stay two steps ahead of them, opening doors. I'm surprised to find Alfred's room luxurious and only slightly smaller than Bruce's. When my high school career choice questionnaire told me to become a Butler, I should have considered the occupation more carefully. Clearly Alfred maintains a higher standard of living than a Mime, my other option. Though I suspect Bruce and Alfred's relationship goes deeper than that of master and servant. I turn down the bed for Bruce and he settles Alfred on the pillows gingerly.

"I never meant for him to get hurt," Bruce whispers.

"It was only a small dose, he'll be fine. Alfred's condition is much better than yours on Sunday night," I remind him.

"I know…" Bruce starts to say.

"Alfred knows the risks of working for you," I tell him firmly. I wander over to a bookshelf lined with golf trophies, the only personal items in Alfred's room, "And I think you should bring Alfred to Marshall's golf tournament this weekend, instead of me."

"In the seven years I was gone, Alfred made it his mission to fly around the world entering every golf tournament possible. I suspect he used the competitions as a cover to search for me."

"Or he just really loves golf," I tease, returning a grin. We walk back to the lounge together.

"Alfred usually does this part," Bruce laments and gestures to the empty coffee table as he collapses into a chair.

"Let me guess, you're as skilled at boiling water as you are at dishes," I predict.

"I know how to boil water," Bruce scoffs.

"With a good old fashioned stove and pot?" I ask, "And not part of some science experiment?"

"I did survive on my own for seven years," he remonstrates.

"And yet not once did you wash a dish," I continue, heading into the kitchen.

"They were not the cleanest years of my life," he calls back at me.

I laugh and put the tea kettle on. While the water heats, I return to the main room, sag into a chair, and prop my feet on the table. Carefully I start to peel back a bandage. The attempt is useless. I give up in frustration and simply rip the loose skin off the blister.

"Stop," Bruce orders quietly, getting up and disappearing into his bedroom. He comes back with a first aid kit and washcloth, "Let me."

"Disinfecting and bandaging a blister is not complicated. I can handle it," I protest, putting my feet back down defiantly.

"How many of my scars are barely visible thanks to your careful stitching?" Bruce asks, sitting down on the edge of the coffee table. He takes my foot and cradles it in his lap.

"These are blisters, Bruce. The biggest blisters I have ever seen, but still blisters," I point out and try to pull away from him. He holds on.

"Lyn, please," he requests while looking up at me from underneath his brows; an expression I don't think I'll ever be able to say no to.

"Fine," I agree reluctantly but with a smile.

He softly cleans my foot off with the washcloth. His care and attention would be almost romantic if it weren't for the dried blood.

"For once you need me," Bruce says, glancing up at me with a small smile, "Instead of the other way around."

"Oh, I'm sure you could get by without me," I joke and slouch back in my chair so our eyes are more level, "Mr. Fox would probably come visit more often, though. He finds miracle cures for everything. Even colds."

"Life would probably be quieter," Bruce adds. He finishes bandaging one foot and switches to the next.

"No, I believe you cause most of the disruptions," I counter.

"I meant literally quieter," Bruce continues mischievously, "Less talking."

I chuckle and nudge him with me foot, immediately regretting it when I bump my open blister.

He lifts my foot up so I can't reach him, and raises his eyebrows as if to say 'serve your right'.

"Anyway, I do need you," I argue, "Before you came along I was too busy controlling my entire world to actually live. I needed Batman to shake life up a bit and push me past mere existence."

Bruce goes quiet for a minute, bending over my foot to hide his face.

"And Gotham can go hang?" he asks hesitantly.

My smile freezes in place.

"What?" I ask. My brain refuses to believe my ears.

"Gotham City," he says, "It could survive without Batman, but you couldn't?"

"I…" I stutter.

After he wraps a final bandage around my foot, his eyes meet mine and I know.

"You remember," I accuse. I might be holding my breath, but my awareness of mind and body leaves me completely, making it hard to tell.

"I never said I didn't," he states cautiously as if anticipating a storm.

We have a staring contest for a couple minutes. More accurately, he watches me as I glare wide-eyed back; a deer caught in headlights. My face feels flush.

Reflecting on the past two days, I realize he never actually confirmed suffering from memory loss after his delirium. I made assumptions based on comments he designed precisely to avoid answering the question. I tried denying my emotions, tried building a mask over my vulnerability, and tried settling for friendship. Truth is the only option left. My eyes implore him to say something, to explain his reasons for evading me, to emit any kind of noise, but the silence speaks louder and more harshly than any words could. His eyes catch every subtle change of expression in my face; expressions betraying my inner thoughts with perfect clarity due to my exhaustion. I need to hide.

I break the lull eventually with a very eloquent, "Damn you!"

I yank my foot from his grasp, vault the chair, and flee into the bathroom. To calm my shaky, tired knees, I sink to the floor. Resting my head against the wooden door, I try to calm my breathing. I curse myself for not being able to keep my big mouth shut, or my hands to myself. I, a silly, fantasizing fool, ruined everything by confusing daydreams with reality. And now he knew. He knew for two days, and did nothing.

A knock on the door sucks any tears in my eyes dry.

"Lyn,?" Bruce asks

I wait, picking chunks of yarn out of the plush shag rug covering the cold tile. My mind and strength may have returned, but my throat feels closed.

"I shouldn't have said anything," he voices regret.

I silently agree with him.

"I mentioned it for selfish reasons," he admits, his voice sounding a lot closer to the floor than earlier.

The door between us must have loosened his tongue.

"I don't want to break up," he says.

Finally, we might be getting somewhere.

"Lyn, I can't go back to parading around dull women lacking the motivation or wits to reach beyond the image. Not after being with you," he confesses.

Lucky me, with all my intelligence.

"You're the only one who puts up with that image," Bruce continues, "Rachel hates it. Even Alfred gives strong hints of disapproval."

My traitorous mind translates Bruce's disconnected sentences to mean if Rachel did approve of the playboy act, she would take my place.

"You made me question the mask's necessity," he says finally.

Yet I'm beginning to understand the need for a divide between the personal and the vigilante life.

"In the beginning our friendship was separate from everything else," he explains.

But not for long.

"I thought you needed me as a man and not a…" he hesitates on the last word.

"Bat?" I finish for him, my voice finally returning.

I understand what exactly he's offering, and I know a semblance of half friendship, half something-more won't be enough for me.

I get up and throw the door open wide. A very surprised Bruce Wayne tumbles into the bathroom on his side. He had been sitting on the carpet, leaning up against the door. A flimsy plank of wood was the only thing separating us.

"You need to work on communication," I accuse, "Bruce, I admire your work as Batman, and your ability to switch between roles never fails to astound me, but I'd still be here with or without that mask," I sigh, "I believe we make a pretty good team." I extend a hand to help him up.

"Batman works alone," Bruce intones with a weaker conviction than before.

"No he doesn't. He never did. Bruce Wayne kept people at a distance for awhile. But not anymore," I step over him, "Now, I'm going to bed. Alone. I'm sure the couch is free."

Bruce follows me, but stops at the bedroom door and casually leans against the frame.

"You can't kick me out of my own bed," he says while wearing the trademark smirk, probably convinced he has won his way back into my good graces.

I throw a pillow at him. This time it hits its mark with a poof. The smirk disappears. He absentmindedly fluffs the feather pillow.

"You need to work on communication," he says, stealing my words, "One day you're kissing me, and the next day you're demanding we drop our public relationship."

"I was worried you had died. Blown to smithereens in an explosion," I argue. I snatch up the pillow I had been cuddling on Saturday and send it flying in the same direction as its twin. Bruce catches it along with the first.

"So, do you kiss dying people often?" Bruce asks.

"What answer do you want?" I counter, vowing reply until he does.

He hesitates and shifts his stance uncomfortably. The pillows between his arms squirm. "I don't want to lose your help," he says, "And…" He lets the last word linger until it dies. My entire being wishes for some subtext in that statement, but no amount of fantasy will make it true.

I sigh, my shoulders sagging.

"I'm not going anywhere," I say, "I moved in, remember? And I need to get at least a tiny amount of beauty sleep this morning since I have my date with Floyd Lawton today. An unpleasant necessity required to figure out what the heck he or Feely is up to, so you can go play hero to Gotham again. But after that, my love life will no longer be involving you or Batman."

I cross the room and grab a pillow out of his arms. He steps back in surprise and anticipation of getting another sack of feathers in the stomach.

"I need this," I say curtly and shut the door in his face. The door muffles his parting whisper into oblivion. I fall face first onto the bed, muffling my own groan with the pillow. Indeed, I'm not going anywhere, I'll be right here, sleeping in Bruce Wayne's bed, and pining after a man pining after a childhood friend. I close my eyes while reminding myself over and over that everything other than friendship was as false as Bruce's public alter ego. At the last minute a tiny thought surfaces, questions how Bruce carrying me for twenty minutes through sewage covered tunnels devoid of any other people could have possibly been pretense, but the thought quickly disappears and I lose myself to dreams.

In my dream Bruce comes back into the bedroom with his pillow, complaining the couch is too cold, and could he please have one of his own blankets to use. The dreaming me pats the empty side of the bed next to me and tells him to lie down, shut up, and let me sleep. My dream doesn't show him getting into bed, but my mind feels more at ease with his quietly breathing form behind my back. I drowsily wonder if I'm reliving Monday in my dreams.

Dead to the world, I continue to wonder for six more hours, until I wake up and realize last night wasn't a dream at all. I sit up and watch him sleep. I can't shake the persistent inkling that I'm being used as a replacement for a certain someone. I straighten the blankets on my side of the bed and cover the pillow neatly. I smother any attraction I might feel along with the pillow. It's my turn to quietly sneak off before he wakes up.

I get dressed and tip toe out of Bruce's bedroom to check on Alfred. The door creaks open to reveal a very awake and comfortable Alfred contentedly reading a newspaper with his glasses hooked on the end of his nose.

"Good morning," I say, knocking softly.

"A better morning than it could have been. My memories of last night escape me," Alfred says pleasantly, "But the events sound exciting."

Smiling, he lifts up the newspaper to show me the front headline.

"_Activist Teresa Williams Saves Billionaire and Girlfriend from Living Scarecrow_," I read, "Well, Batman's existence certainly makes the attention-grabbing news headlines more entertaining. The only time I've ever known a scarecrow to come to life is in the Wizard of Oz and Howl's Moving Castle."

"Is it true Master Wayne carried you for three miles underground because the homeless mob attacked your feet?" Alfred asks, looking amused.

"It says that?" I ask, stunned, "The three miles is definitely an exaggeration. And my feet were destroyed by my shoes. Sheer stupidity on my part and not Crane's fault at all."

"I'm sure he enjoyed himself," Alfred says, continuing to read.

"Crane?" I guess.

"Bruce," Alfred corrects, "Who, as quoted in the article, will 'never go anywhere without at least three buttons on his suit from now on'. His comment should start a new trend. Did the newspaper get that part accurate? You followed a trail of buttons to Crane's lair?"

"Yes," I confirm, "Teresa found the first one."

"How very Hansel and Gretel," Alfred pronounces, folding up the paper and setting it down beside him on the bed, "Thankfully no one was hurt. I may have to talk with Master Wayne about how far he takes his act."

"He planned the entire debacle," I say, slightly resentfully.

"I suspected as much," Alfred sighs, closing his eyes calmly and leaning back into his pillows.

"Can I get you anything before I leave?" I ask, remembering the countless food trays Alfred always manages to materialize out of thin air.

"A fried egg sunny-side up will do nicely," Alfred says. I can tell he anticipated my question by the delighted, victorious expression on his face.

"Thank goodness, I can make that one," I say in relief, "I was worried you'd ask for something more complicated.

"Perhaps some tea as well," Alfred adds.

"Coming right up," I say jovially and disappear out the door. I see to Alfred's breakfast, make sure he has his phone at hand, dig Bruce's phone out of his suit pocket, and place the phone precariously on the nightstand next to Bruce's sleeping head so it'll fall off when it rings. Cheered by the image of Bruce being unexpectedly woken when his bedridden butler needs a tea refill, I head off to work.

Pushing through the doors to Wayne Enterprises, I keep my eyes on my feet to avoid contact with Mary. A strange humming follows me as I shuffle by her desk. The song sounds distinctly similar to "If I Only Had a Brain".

"Lynnet," Mr. Fox greets me as we bump into one another in front of the elevator, "I'm surprised you came into work today."

"Has anyone in Gotham not heard of the kidnapping?" I ask bitterly.

"Kidnapping? Drake thought you had a cold," he says, eyes twinkling.

"Oh, I did have a cold. But I got better. And then Jonathan Crane kidnapped me. With Bruce," I explain.

"Yet you didn't come in to work on Tuesday," Mr. Fox continues, "You're braver than I am." He courteously presses the button for the basement first so I don't have to ride to the top floor and down again.

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Leaving Drake alone, tempted by all those computers and the Archives' server, takes guts," he finishes.

"Should I be worried?" I ask as I step out of the elevator.

"Good luck," he says enigmatically. His eyes tell me to worry.

Filled with new apprehension, I set my bag on my desk and note the mysterious absence of the usual daily reports and newspapers. Based off of Mr. Fox's hunch, I make my way back to the server room. The state of disarray I find there is truly astonishing.

"What are you doing?" I demand to know.

Drake guiltily jumps to his feet, plugging a few wires back in as he goes.

"I finished the day's work early again, and now I'm switching us completely over to Linux. Your network makes no logical sense. And as wonderful as Bill Gates is, if I have to suffer through the blue screen of death one more time in my life, I'll probably throw the computer out the nearest window. Which isn't possible here in the basement, so Linux it is. I'm also reorganizing the backups and security system. I discovered shoddy work, with code possibly dating back to the days of punch cards and a complete lack of proper commenting. I couldn't sit by and do nothing. You do know how to run Linux don't you?" He asks the last question as if everyone who is anyone knows Linux.

"I made an illustrated report on the Lynx back in third grade," I say jokingly. I don't remind him that my desk computer, in addition to all the computers in Applied Sciences, already runs on the operating system.

He winces, "Well, I'm sure you'll adapt quickly," and pats me on the shoulder gently, "You at least know Unix, right?"

"You nixed what?" I ask with a grin.

His expression suddenly turns very grave, "I see I have my work cut out for me. Don't worry I have all my old CS books for you to look through."

"CS?" I ask. I can guess what it stands for, but enjoy winding him up after the mess he made of the servers.

"Computer science," Drake blurts out desperately, "XKCD, give me strength." He throws an arm around my shoulder and steers me out of the room. "Reconfiguring the servers and straightening out the mess that is the backbone of your entire system will take me a couple days. You have the answer to life, the universe, and everything in sick days; I suggest you use a few wisely."

He hands me my bag as we walk past the desk that only a week ago I thought I would sit at forever.

"What is the answer to life, the universe, and everything?" I ask him.

"42," Drake says, presses the elevator button, and waves goodbye, "Don't come back until Friday."

In my entire life, I don't remember being gotten rid of quite so neatly. I'm beginning to wonder if Mr. Fox was right. Drake might be entirely too efficient for his own good. I ponder what to do in my free time when I walk by Mary's desk. A hummed rendition of the Wicked Witch of the West's theme follows me as I go.

Of course, with nothing to do, I end up painting back at the bunker. The bare concrete walls intensify the emptiness. In the manner of old houses, the odd pieces of junk stashed behind the bunker's false walls shift and settle, resonating loud creaks and clanks. With every sound my head jerks away from my painting in anticipation of Bruce. The frequent interruptions result in a very patchy portrait.

I move my easel closer to the vibrant sheets hanging in my corner, but fail to brighten my loneliness with the cheerful colors. I've been alone in the bunker plenty of times. Except the distracting ache and restless need to be surrounded by people is new. After a couple hours of painting my hand continuously drifts to the phone, willing it to ring. Eventually it does.

"Hello?" I answer without checking the ID.

"Lyn! You'll never believe who appeared in Archives a couple minutes ago," Drake says cheerfully.

"Who?" I ask, trying and failing to come up with the oddest person to visit the Archives.

"Bruce Wayne!"

"Oh," I say, surprised at Drake's surprise, "You don't read the tabloids do you?"

"Who has time for tabloids? I can barely make it through all those newspapers as it is," Drake dismisses my question, "Anyway, Mr. Wayne specifically asked for you. I told him you were taking a few mental health days and would be out until Friday."

"Mental health days?" I groan, wondering what Bruce thought of that excuse.

"Yeah," Drake muses, "he seemed concerned for your well being after I mentioned your mental health. Said whatever he needed wasn't urgent."

"He should be concerned," I say weakly, "We're kind of dating."

"That explains that," Drake says matter-of-fact, "Only it wasn't exactly concern. Almost as if he was guilty or something. I don't know, I've never been very good at reading people's expressions. But…wait…how can you be 'kind of' dating?"

"It's complicated," I say. Understatement of the year.

"Okay," Drake takes my complex relationship with my boss in stride, "Does the intrigue surround someone named Chad? He came down here earlier needing information on a prototype. I found the documents easily enough, but he made it clear he would have rather talked to you. Seriously, please tell me your secret to getting these visits from extremely good looking men: Floyd Lawton, Bruce Wayne, Chad..."

"Pretend you're dating them," I reply, realizing with a mixture of shock and disgust that this is one thing I have in common with all three.

"What?"

"Uh…pretend you already know them really well and act natural around them," I invent advice on the fly to cover my slipup.

"Hmmm…I'll keep that in mind," Drake says, "In the meantime you might want to stop by your convoluted boyfriend's office. He left looking like a lost puppy. And he told me to tell you he was sorry."

Typical Bruce Wayne: apologizing using a third party whether through his mask or another person.

"Thanks," I say, "I'll be in Wayne Enterprises soon."

"But not in Archives," Drake warns hurriedly.

"Not in Archives," I confirm with a rush of joy. Bruce sought me out to apologize, so I'd go straight to his office. My spirits soar as I pack anyway my paints and catch the first train downtown.

However, my hopes crash when I reach Bruce's office. The door is closed and Jessica tells me he's out for the day. Plus my phone hasn't rung a second time, so he's not exactly overexerting himself to find me.

Eerily, the phone starts to jingle. I check the ID: Floyd Lawton, probably calling about our date. I briefly consider telling him to jump off a cliff. But, with Bruce overcomplicating our relationship again, I desperately long for a normal date. I might end up having fun even while I'm dining with a courtly socialite who actually is a courtly socialite and not pretending to be one.

"Hi!" I say, forcing excitement into my voice.

"Good evening," Floyd drawls, "Ready?"

"Definitely," I state firmly.

"Wonderful. Where can I pick you up?"

"In front of Wayne Tower," I suggest, "I'll leave Archives now."

At her desk Jessica shoots me a raised eyebrow over the lie. I shrug at her.

"Ok, I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Floyd sys.

Unlike Bruce, Floyd Lawton arrives at Wayne Enterprises precisely on time. I momentarily regret instructing Floyd to pick me up in front of the building where Mary works. For my trouble I'm rewarded with the experience of dashing out the door to the tune of "Ding Dong the Wicked Witch is Dead". I quickly forgot all regrets when Floyd jumps out to open the door for me. The gesture is a nice change from Bruce's casual indifference.

"Bruce won't mind?" Floyd asks eagerly, looking altogether too pleased to be whisking Bruce Wayne's girlfriend off on a date directly underneath the playboy's nose.

"Bruce won't notice," I retort and slide into Floyd's fancy sports car.

"Then he must be blind," Floyd says, revving the engine and pulling away.

"People do keep saying that," I comment idly.

Prejudiced against wealthy men in fast cars, I expect Floyd to speed through lights, dodge cars, and drive in Bruce's signature reckless fashion. Instead he drives flawlessly, handling the car as if strolling lazily down the richest, meticulously tree-lined street in Gotham. Nevertheless, we reach our destination ten minutes early instead of the stylish ten minutes late, or in Bruce terms, two hours late. At the restaurant Floyd once again jumps out, hands the keys off to the valet parking service, and opens my door before anyone else can react. I unearth my most vivacious smile and take his arm. Unbidden, Bruce's typical smirk and that secretive, knowing flash of his eyes he sends my way before we appear in public comes to mind. My grin widens and a strange warmth flows through me.

"Thinking about me?" Floyd whispers in my ear, pulling the chair out for me as I sit down.

I laugh nervously and blush, not trusting myself to lie.

Floyd takes my reaction as a good sign. He leans leisurely back in his chair and captures my hand in his.

"So, I've been curious, what exactly happened last night?" Floyd asks.

"With the Scarecrow?" I ask, "Basically the criminal poisoned the restaurant and abducted Bruce and me. The newspapers exaggerate to add excitement."

"Adding excitement to such a spectacle would be easy. How did standing up to an insane felon feel?"

"Terrifying," I answer, swirling my water glass around in circles. Bruce always kept a hand under the table, dispensing restless energy by fidgeting with his napkin or whatever happened to be in his pocket at the time. "Most people screamed and ran around. Bruce displayed extraordinary calm."

"Really?" Floyd asks, leaning forward with interest.

"Yes. He's brave when he wants to be," I explain, "Completely useless in a fist fight, but very valiant. He attempted to save me by pushing me out of the way."

"Indeed, the newspapers report he handled the situation with a nonchalant grace," Floyd agrees.

I nod, somewhat bemused by Floyd's comments. For a man who is supposed to be charming me out of Bruce's arms, Floyd compliments his rival enthusiastically.

"I promise to protect you if any criminals interrupt our meal tonight," Floyd says, raising his glass to me with an elegant flash of his teeth.

"Thank you," I say and mimic his gesture. Secretly I seethe over being forced into the damsel in distress role.

Floyd laughs. Clearly criminal threats do not genuinely concern him.

"You dined with Ron Marshall that night, correct?" Floyd asks.

"And his wife," I add.

"Of course," Floyd concedes, "Now, there's a man I can admire. I commend Ron Marshall's effort to bring the quality of life to a higher standard in our town."

"Not everyone supports gentrification," I argue, "Especially when it drives up prices and forces the locals to move."

"The locals should be grateful for the renovation of their neighborhood," Floyd scoffs.

"Why should they be, if it ultimately doesn't benefit them? Maybe if Marshall built a bigger library, or a grocery store to relieve those stuck in a food desert…" I start to say.

"I forgot, you're a supporter of Teresa Williams," Floyd interrupts, chuckling lightly, "Campaigning for the rights of the homeless; it's cute. You are a wonder, Lyn."

I bristle at his patronizing tone. If Bruce sat across the table from me, I would receive a hand squeeze and a subtle wink with a statement like that. From Floyd I only hear shallow truth behind his words.

"I heard Bruce will be attending the golf tournament Saturday," Floyd continues, "I'll have to step up to give him a bit more competition. I'm sure he understands the benefits of redevelopment."

"I'm sure," I say testily, itching to tell Floyd about Bruce's recent donation to Teresa.

The conversation remains the same throughout the evening. I barely notice what I'm eating and the food tastes bland despite the five star rating. Each time Floyd mentions Bruce, and the name comes up surprisingly often, I find myself wishing I could magically switch the two men.

Could it be I actually miss the insufferable Prince of Gotham? At what point did his playacting stop being frustrating and start to be appealing? Or did a part of me always enjoy sharing in his laughter at the ignorant world surrounding us?

After dinner Floyd and I amble along the boardwalk in the direction of the amusement park. Floyd attempts to take my hand, but I firmly place them on my bag and maintain a foot of space between us. In the distance I can see the twinkling lights of the Ferris wheel towering over the water, my favorite ride in the park. When I was little I used to imagine myself as a seagull, soaring over the wharf. Briefly I consider confessing this to Floyd.

"I hated theme parks as a kid," Floyd announces abruptly, running his hand through his hair to slick it back and slipping his hands into his pockets. The mannerism strikingly reminds me of Bruce.

"Why?" I ask, glad I kept my thoughts to myself.

"All the noise, crowds, and dirt used to give me a headache," Floyd explains, "And I was too worried about the rickety rides breaking down to actually enjoy them."

So why are we going to an amusement park now?

"I loved amusement parks," I stubbornly insist, swallowing my question.

"I can see why Bruce enjoys your company," Floyd says with a startled laugh, "You're amusingly contentious. I find it refreshing."

"It must be the artist in me," I say sarcastically. The sarcasm goes over his head.

"Well, my artist," Floyd says, "What was your favorite ride? Tell me, and I'll willingly suffer through it for you." He throws an arm around my shoulder after finally coming to the conclusion I'm never going to make my hand available.

"The carousel," I lie, knowing one ride around the Ferris wheel with Floyd could destroy years of sentimental magic. I never enjoyed the Carousel's pretty painted horses, useless except as decoration.

"Carousel it is," Floyd announces. He steers me with one hand on my back towards the sparkling horses and gilded railings.

By lingering in the back of the rush as kids and parents try to snag their favorite horse, I manage to separate myself from Floyd and swing up onto a midnight black unicorn with carefully molded wings plastered to its side. He takes the only horse left, directly in front of mine.

"Isn't the water beautiful at night?" Floyd asks, gesturing out towards the ocean.

I nod until he turns around again. With his back to me, my grin crashes to the ancient plank floor of the Carousel and I allow myself a grimace. Sagging in my saddle, I lean my face against the cool metal spiral stabbed through the saddle to prevent my horse from galloping off. Out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of a familiar orange hood. I nearly fall off my seat when I whip around to follow the spot of color. The spot disappears around the corner of the Carousel. Anxiously, I wait for the moment I can see it again, twisting in my saddle. Eventually a pillar the person in the orange hood was standing next to comes into view.

No one is there except a handful of parents determinedly snapping photos of squirmy children on the ride.

On the next time around, I search again and am rewarded with the sight of a man in an orange hood, grinning like a fool. He lifts his head as I fly past him on my Pegasus, permitting me to look into his playfully mocking eyes.

My quickened heartbeat betrays the fact that I did miss those eyes after all.

'What are you doing here?' I mouth to him before he disappears behind the Carousel centerpiece.

'Business,' he mouths back when the Carousel comes around again.

'Go away!' I gesture, not believing his excuse for an instant.

He shrugs.

I never get a chance to discover if he complied because the carousel stops on the other side of the pier. Floyd gallantly assists me in my dismount from the horse. I generously refrain from 'accidentally' kicking him in the face.

"And now I'll prove my worth to you in a show of physical prowess," Floyd announces, only half jokingly. He points to the various carnival games in front of us.

I roll my eyes and stand dutifully behind him as he effortlessly wins the ring toss, basketball shoot, and water gun race. Each time he trades in for a bigger and bigger stuffed animal. My presence is only required to hold his prize for him and act appreciative. Otherwise, I might not even exist. Finally, one game remains to be beaten. He steps up to the balloon popping counter and picks a single dart.

"Watch," he says, his arrogance reaching peak levels.

My attention drifts away from Floyd and lands on a bench where a lonely man in an orange hood relaxes. A woman sits next to him and desperately tries to appease her daughter's incessant begging for a teddy bear, the largest prize.

"Winner!" the balloon pop girl declares, ringing the bells. The clamoring little girl immediately shuts up to stare in wonder at Floyd.

"Did you see?" Floyd asks me proudly.

"Indeed, you have perfect aim!" I lie. I examine the board of balloons. Floyd must have popped the required three with one dart. Impressive, I suppose. The girl behind the counter cuts down a teddy bear and hands it to Floyd. The little girl's eyes go wide. Floyd dramatically presents the bear to me.

"For you, Lynnet," he says.

No one calls me Lynnet except Eleanor when she's in a mood.

"Thank you for the ostentatious display," I tell him in the sweetest, most innocent voice I can conjure, "But I don't know where I would put such a large stuffed animal. Bruce always takes up most of the bed, and I don't think there would be room."

I turn my back to Floyd's shocked face, and walk over towards the bench. Bruce appears to think I'm coming for him and is poised to flee. Instead I push the teddy bear into the little girl's eager arms. She squeals and hugs the life-size bear tightly.

"You'll take good care of this bear, won't you?" I ask the little girl.

She nods mutely and pats the bear on the head.

"Thank you, Miss Pearl!" the mother says. I belatedly recognize her asc the woman from the Grand Concourse bathroom.

"You're welcome, Michelle," I reply, pleased to be recognized.

"I spent an hour winning you the stuffed bear, and you give it away?" Floyd sounds petulant as he comes up behind me.

"It's not a big deal, dear," I tell him, grabbing his hand and dragging him away from the bench.

"Not a big deal? You ungrateful…"

"How about another ride?" I cut him off.

"Fine," he sulks.

Inspired by Floyd's increasingly annoying behavior, I suggest we head to the funhouse next. He pompously agrees, not knowing what I know about the funhouse built in 1927. When broken down, as it often is, the funhouse appears to be a perfectly normal clapboard house. However, someone with a very sick sense of humor decided to make the house a split level home in the midst of an earthquake. When working, one side of the house rotates and slides up while the other side rotates and slides down; the 'earthquake' creates a rocking motion that renders it nearly impossible to remain surefooted inside. A sneering clown's face hangs over the door, cackling at anyone who goes near. None of my childhood friends ever understood how this ride could possibly be my third favorite.

"Stay behind me," Floyd jokes, "It might be dangerous."

"You should go first, just in case," I agree, smiling demurely at him.

I wait for a second after Floyd steps through the doorway. Sure enough, Bruce slinks out from behind a midway booth. I wink at him and disappear into the house. Floyd fearlessly guides us through the myriad of rooms. Plastic knives from the kitchen tip precariously out of drawers at us as the house shifts to the left. A slashed family portrait starts to collapse on us in the hallway as everything shifts right. The effects are cheesy and obviously rigged, with the occasional crazy clown theme thrown in, but Floyd finds it hilarious. He effortlessly stays upright through the entire downstairs and upstairs sections, continuously catching me before I hurtle into walls or fake padded furniture. I imagine walking in the funhouse is a little like walking while drunk or going to the bathroom in the darkest time of night while trying to dodge crafty furniture positioned at exactly shin level.

Floyd sails down the rickety stairs into the darkened basement section. I nearly trip, but catch myself on the railing at the last minute. Lamps swing precariously above a mirror maze stretching across the bottom of the entire house.

"A Labyrinth! How fun," Floyd laughs. He starts off into the maze without checking to see if I'm still following. At the entrance, I bounce into a mirrored wall on the next tilt of the floor and cling to the edge for support. Expertly I wait for the exact moment when I know Floyd is deep into the wrong direction of the maze. Then I take the opposite path. Traversing the maze is as simple as the first time I tried. Halfway through I duck into a dead end with a pile of barrels stacked in a corner. I crouch behind the barrels and continue my surveillance. After a couple minutes Bruce passes by and I step out from my hiding place to whisper his name. He spins around and grins at me. The house suddenly chooses to shift again. The movement sends me stumbling towards the wall. Barrels tumble down on a path of death to crush me. Bruce leaps to action, covering my body with his and bracing himself for the impact.

I chuckle at him, still ensconced in his arms, and point at the barrels which are now harmlessly resetting themselves, ready to scare the next unsuspecting visitor.

"A little twitchy?" I ask him.

He laughs softly, leaning his head into my shoulder to quiet the sound.

"Thank you for losing Floyd," he says after composing himself.

"He's probably too busy admiring himself from six different directions to realize I'm gone. Can you tell me why I'm avoiding my date?" I ask with a smirk.

"I'm here to crash another mob meeting at a nearby hotel," he explains quietly, "Based on information I gathered from Crane before you rescued me last night, I know the Russians coordinate the drug deals between Crane and his supplier. And, I need your help."

"No, admit it: you couldn't stand watching Lawton take me out," I tease.

"You're not interested in Floyd," he scoffs.

"How do you know? Many women find Lawton's quirks charming," I point out.

"You're calling him by his last name. You only do that to me when I annoy you," Bruce explains, eyes shining in amusement.

Curse Bruce Wayne for being observant.

"Will you help me get into the hotel?" Bruce asks, more seriously this time.

"Okay," I say, relieved to have an excuse to get away, "But first I have to rid myself of Floyd completely."

He nods and I notice something in the way he looks at me has changed. An indescribable, but clear change.

"You can let go of me now," I prompt, "I think I'll be safe."

He steps away from me sheepishly, but takes my hand to lead me into the maze in the direction of the entrance.

"Wrong way," I scold, "Let the master do the work. There's a reason this is my third favorite ride." I pull him along with one hand and steady myself against the wall with the other. Within minutes we reach the cellar door. The tunnel shaped exit spins wildly in front of us. To get back to ground level, we must climb up the red and white spiraling ladder.

Coordination, my old foe, we meet again. With two left feet, I have historically provided endless entertainment for everyone while attempting, and failing, to get to the top. Eventually someone would take pity and pull me through. Which is exactly why the funhouse was my third favorite ride and not the second.

Bruce senses my hesitance and goes first. He stumbles a bit and nearly falls onto his hands, but reaches the top within seconds. He turns back to me, extends a hand, and laughs good-naturedly at the look of displeasure I'm giving the rotating tunnel.

"Lyn? Lyn, where are you?" Floyd's voice floats over to us. From experience I estimate it will take him five minutes to reach the exit. Motivated by the time crunch, I fling myself onto the ladder and grab Bruce's hand. He drags me up while my feet scramble in slapstick-cartoon fashion. Amidst the commotion, my left foot catches a solid bump on the ladder and I launch into Bruce's arms. Together we stagger away from the fun house and sit down on a handy bench to ease the dizziness. A bench probably used by many others for the same reason.

"Remind me to work on your clumsiness in combat practice," Bruce comments. He buys the largest cloud of cotton candy I've ever seen and sits back down. The kid sitting on the bench next to us eyes Bruce's purchase enviously.

"So, find out anything from Floyd?" Bruce asks, holding the cotton candy in front of his face. Any moment now, when Floyd appears out of the funhouse exit, the sickly sweet candy will successfully obscure Bruce from view.

"Nothing useful," I admit, "He spent nearly the entire time talking about you. I think Floyd has found a replacement for the brother he idolized."

"That could be useful," Bruce raises an eyebrow and we sit for a bit while he contemplates the new information. In the silence, a question in the back of my mind bubbles to the surface.

"Do you find me amusingly contentious?" I ask Bruce.

The corners of his mouth twitch upward as he mulls over his answer.

"I enjoy you expressing your opinions," he says lightly.

"And I you," I contend happily.

"Why do you ask?"

Floyd picks that inopportune moment to walk out of the exit. Immediately his eyes find me and he approaches the bench. I spring up and meet him halfway to avoid any chance he might recognize Bruce.

"I certainly misplaced you in there," Floyd admits, "I spent half my time searching for you."

Liar. He had been hopelessly, helplessly lost while 'searching' for me.

"I knew the way out, but I couldn't find you," I lie blandly, "Good thing the house only has one exit."

"Yeah," Floyd says, distractedly glancing behind him, "Look, darling, I missed an imperative business call in the house," he spots the bench where a fluffy pink head framed by an orange hood sits, "Wait for me on that seat. I should be gone for no more than fifteen minutes."

He walks away without pausing for my answer. I shrug and am about to return to Bruce when Floyd doubles back and almost as an afterthought, plants a quick peck on my mouth. I notice Bruce's cotton candy disguise drop out of the corner of my eye.

"Don't disappear on me again," Floyd taunts, smiling charmingly. I watch him walk away for the second time, flooded with embarrassment. Dumbfounded, I plop back down on the bench. I steal a glance at the man next to me. A portrait sketch of Bruce now would be a wonderful study in deadpan expressions.

"Sorry," I mumble while wiping the back of my hand across my lips, "I wasn't expecting that," I wipe my hand on the back of my skirt, "The entire reason he finds me attractive is because he transferred his brotherly competition from Edward to you."

"You're free to kiss whoever you want," Bruce says matter-of-factly, shutting off all physical communication with his expressionless mask.

"Well, it's certainly one area where he hasn't beaten you yet," I utter in playful seriousness.

A tight-lipped smile briefly spasms across Bruce's face.

"Shall we follow him?" Bruce asks.

"Thought you'd never ask," I gush in relief.

He hands off the gigantic wad of untouched cotton candy to the envious boy and we meander in the direction Floyd left. I follow Bruce's lead, fascinated by the effortless way he manages to blend in while trailing Floyd. Our path takes us to the end of the amusement park, past the restaurant, and into an abandoned warehouse. At first the front door, clinging to its hinges for dear life, appears to be the only way in. Fortunately on the more deserted side of the building we find an uncovered broken window. Unfortunately the factory window rises eight feet above the ground.

"Get on my shoulders," Bruce whispers, kneeling down and holding his hands out for me to step up on.

"What?" I hiss, "Do you want me to take your head off on accident? We already discussed my coordination."

"I want to find out what 'business call' takes place in a warehouse," Bruce whispers calmly back, "Get on."

Clumsily, but steadily, I climb up his shoulders and, lean against the splintered wood to peer through the window. My view clears in time to witness Floyd pull a gun on a bedraggled, lanky man.

Jacob Feely tosses his head back with laughter. The hanks of black hair covering his face fly open. "You don't think I came prepared?" he asks Floyd contemptuously and waves a detonator, "I can blow up this entire place with one push of a button. I have very quick reflexes. But such destruction would be a shameful waste of effort, so why don't you put your gun away and talk."

Floyd lowers his gun obediently. He arrogantly glares down his nose at Feely.

"I think you know what I want," Feely hints.

"I can't imagine," Floyd says with disgust.

"You are aware of the connections your father enjoyed some time ago," Feely says, lifting an envelope out of a computer bag, "Connections that cost me six long years of imprisonment for staying silent. Even longer had I not escaped."

"Maroni had you transferred to the asylum for that," Floyd argues disdainfully.

"Imprisonment!" Feely cackles, "Rotting in a cell with nothing to program except scratches on the walls. A waste of genius! But I endured willingly. It was worth it, for leverage like this," he grins maliciously.

Floyd laughs disdainfully, "The joke is on you. The money is gone. All that's left is my mother's inheritance and she would die rather than see my father's hands on that."

"I don't want money," Feely explains brightly, "All I need from you is an audience with Maroni and…his friends."

"I ended those connections," Floyd growls threateningly.

"My sources say otherwise," Feely says with an arrogant grin.

Floyd turns on his heel and starts to leave.

"Leave now and you give me no choice but to hand my information over to the authorities," Feely warns.

Floyd swivels on the spot and smiles in disbelief at Feely.

"Please do," Floyd chuckles pleasantly, "Hand over yourself while you're at it. I'm sure the cops will be grateful." He continues in the direction of the door.

"You're father will go to jail for life," Feely yells his last attempt.

"Good," Floyd barks, slamming the door behind him. The door promptly falls off the hinges, ruining his dramatic exit. He stalks into the night, towards the distant lights and music, minutes away from discovering his date has gone missing. In my panic, I lose my grip on the wood. Flailing wildly in open space, I snatch the closest thing possible. It ends up being a rope dangling inside the window. My weight drags down the rope and I fall. Bruce attempts to catch me but the rope jerks me to a stop two feet above the ground.

"Who's there?" Feely screams out.

"Run," Bruce insists, trying to peel my fingers off the rope.

"Wait, I've got an idea," I say, "Feely will listen to me."

Bracing my feet against the wall, I climb up the rope and hitch myself onto the window ledge. Feely, clutching his detonator to shield him from whatever made the mystery noise, stares in shock.

"What are you doing here?" He squeaks.

"Funny, that phrase sounds so familiar. No one ever answers that question satisfactorily," I comment idly, "So why bother asking?" I yank the rope over the other side of the wall, toss it into the warehouse, and rappel down.

"How much did you hear?" Feely asks, attempting to regain composure by folding his arms and shaking the hair out of his face once again.

"Enough to know I'm never going on another date with Floyd Lawton," I mention offhand and take a few steps towards Feely. I lean against a crooked old pillar and mirror Feely's stance, "And enough to know I might be interested in the contents of that envelope."

"You had a copy of the envelope once. If you're so curious, why didn't you look in it then?" Feely asks suspiciously.

"Because I made the mistake of trusting Lawton once," I say, "I won't be making it again."

Feely reflexively steps backward and pulls the envelope closer to his body. "You think I'll freely hand over the blackmail I spent six years in jail for?" he scoffs.

I laugh "You were prepared to give it to the police for free. What would be the difference?" more seriously I add, "But I don't expect that. I want the same deal Lawton had: a meeting with Maroni, in exchange for the envelope."

Floyd stares at me with trepidation. "Not possible. Maroni wants you dead," he spats,

Flinching, I attempt to keep the surprise out of my face, but as Bruce pointed out, I'm horrible with hiding emotion and fear is difficult to disguise. I knew Maroni wanted me out of his business, but dead is rather permanent for a girl who simply had the bad luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"That's right," Feely laughs humorlessly, clearly glad to have regained control of the situation, "I know what you witnessed. Good thing you've become more popular in the news lately, or I imagine you wouldn't be alive to chat with me. The high profile boyfriends are convenient, aren't they? Maroni can't disappear someone who would be missed, can he? Not with the shaky ground he's standing on after Falcone's death."

"Maroni can't reach me," I say coldly, trying to hide the fact that I have no idea what I witnessed to get me in such trouble, "But I can get to him."

"How?" Feely asks, sounding interested.

"I have friends," I explain, "Sam and Lawrence. You must have heard of them."

"I have," Feely acknowledges, "They won't talk to anyone."

"They'll talk to me," I argue, "And if they don't, you can keep the envelope and lose nothing. But if they do, we both get what we want."

My irresistible negotiation quickly convinces Feely.

"Sounds fair," Feely agrees and shakes my hand, "Deal. When you have the information, contact me through Harley." The envelope goes back in the bag and I make my exit out the front door.

"What are you going to use the envelope for?" Feely calls out to my back.

I ignore him.

"Because, I was thinking you might want it for revenge," Feely hangs a tidbit of extra information in the air between us, watching me like a vulture.

I refuse to take his bait and leave him standing alone in the warehouse. As soon as I'm out of Feely's sight, Bruce materializes beside me and attaches himself to my arm.

"How did you know…" Bruce starts.

"He wasn't going to kill me on sight?" I ask, "Feely has never taken advantage of his ample opportunities to do so. Plus he loves himself too much for suicide, which rules out the bomb."

"At least we know more about Lawton's involvement with the mob," he says, "We need to stop at the Tumbler before heading to the hotel. We'll find a quiet place to talk there."

"What about Lawton?" I ask, thinking of how annoyed he'll be when I never show up at the rendezvous point.

"How many women would wait on a park bench for thirty minutes for their date to come back?" Bruce asks, checking his watch.

"Bruce," I chide, "Floyd knows I have waited hours for you to show up on multiple occasions."

"You must enjoy my company more," Bruce says, "The meeting is in an hour. No reason to waste time losing Floyd again."

"I think we're going to have to waste it," I advise, spotting Floyd pushing his way through the crowds of the amusement park. My scorned date systematically divides the tourists, searching right and left and not missing anyone. Bruce notices Floyd a split second after me and glances around for a hiding spot. I do the same, until I notice the little girl I gave the life-size teddy bear to standing next to us, first in line for the Ferris wheel. I duck underneath the Ferris wheel loading dock's awning and pull Bruce with me.

"Can we take your place on the ride?" I quietly plead with the girl's mother, "We're trying to avoid the guy I came here with." I nod in the direction of the steadily approaching Floyd Lawton.

"Heavens, who wouldn't want to avoid him," Michelle huffs, "Go on, Miss Pearl," she hands us the tickets and pushes us forward, "It's getting too late for us to be out anyway." She winks at me before Bruce and I disappear into the plastic umbrella bucket.

Floyd hurries past the loading area, but fails to see us behind the umbrella and stuffed bear.

"Good luck," Michelle mouths, waving to us with a grin as the ride starts. The little girl holds up her bear to flop the furry arm from side to side.

"At least it's a quiet place to talk," Bruce comments, slumping in his seat and arranging the orange hood closer around his face.

"I feel bad taking the tickets from her, though," I say. Following his lead, I make myself comfortable and rest my tired feet on the seat across from us.

"Don't worry," Bruce says with a smirk, "I slipped a hundred into her pocket on the platform."

"You happened to have that much cash on you?" I question.

"I carry a few around when I go out," he explains, "Just in case."

"Just in case?" I ask, incredulously, "Wouldn't hundred dollar bills raise suspicion?"

"She'll have already guessed it was me considering how easily she recognized you," Bruce says, "I need to scrap this disguise after tonight."

"She only recognized me because she works in the bathroom of the restaurant we dined at on Tuesday," I explain, "I talked with her briefly."

"To be safe, I'll have Alfred donate the sweatshirt tomorrow," he says, "There are plenty of equally dirty and hole-ridden sweatshirts in the world." He glances sideways at me with a half grin.

I nod, but am slightly disappointed to see the orange hood go.

"So, what revenge do you want on George Lawton?" Bruce asks.

I laugh in disbelief, "Out of the entire conversation, you grill me on that?"

"I'm assuming you had good reason not to tell me about Maroni," Bruce says with some difficulty, "And revenge is the part that could cause the most problems."

"I have no idea what I'm supposed to have witnessed," I say truthfully, "And I haven't heard anything about Maroni wanting me dead. I think Sam or Lawrence would have told me. Maroni did order me to stay away from the Narrows. I've been complying with that rule, so he shouldn't bother me."

Bruce studies me quietly.

"As for George Lawton," I say hesitantly, "I've lived this long without knowing what the man did to cause me to want revenge, and I'll be perfectly happy keeping it that way," I sigh, "You learn the contents of that envelope. Without telling me, please."

Maroni already murdered the only man I'd ever want revenge on.

Bruce nods, "Okay." We sit next to each other silently.

"Do you think Lawton was telling the truth?" I ask, "About cutting the mob connections?"

"I don't know," Bruce says honestly, bitterly, "I might need to keep a closer eye on him."

"Ingratiating yourself with him should be easy considering how much he admires you," I say.

"What do you think of him?" Bruce asks.

"I don't know," I repeat his words, "Floyd can be annoying, spoiled, and a bit ridiculous, but I think he might be harmless. Except for the whole gun pointing episode."

This point in our conversation marks one fourth of a turn around the wheel. Figuring we're high enough up not to be recognized, I crawl to the opposite side of the bucket and stare through the gleaming skyscrapers. The ocean breeze ruffles my hair, reminding me of a sensation I almost confided to Floyd hours ago.

"There was one odd thing," I say, shifting in my seat to face Bruce, "When we entered the park, I nearly told Lawton the Ferris wheel was my favorite ride since it felt like flying, but I stopped because he confessed he hated amusement parks his whole life. Why take a date to an amusement park if you hate them?"

"Perhaps he knew you enjoyed the rides," Bruce says, his expression unreadable.

"Everyone who knew that about me is either dead or gone from Gotham," I say bluntly, "I know I never mentioned amusement parks to Lawton. Why would I?"

"Ask him next time," Bruce suggests.

I snort and turn back to the skyscrapers. "There won't be a next time," I say, "I told you, I'm done with letting my love life be involved in these games. No matter how pretend it might be."

Silence settles again.

"Alfred used to take me on the Ferris wheel after my parents died," Bruce says conversationally, "When I finally admitted I enjoyed the sensation of flying," he chuckles, "Alfred started taking me hang-gliding at our private launching point instead."

I laugh, "I've always wondered what it would have been like to grow up with a private hang-gliding launch and a butler to do it with."

"It was lonely," Bruce admits, "Except for Rachel."

I tense up, clinging to the railing of the bucket with all my strength while fighting the inner wave of irrational jealousy.

"She must have been a good friend," I say carefully. My eyes remain glued to the top of the Wayne Enterprises building that towers above the skyline.

"She was," Bruce says, "Back then."

I refuse to bite into that particular bit of temptation. I'm not playing therapist for Bruce's mixed up relationship with Rachel Dawes. As if on cue, the wheel unexpectedly jerks to a halt. We're at the very top of the ride.

"Why did we stop?" I wonder aloud while scooting to the middle of the bucket and leaning down to get a look.

Binoculars mysteriously hover above my shoulder.

"Thanks," I tell Bruce without glancing at him. I don't need to see him to feel his presence next to me, his arm lazily stretched behind my back and resting on the railing. I zoom in on the loading platform to investigate the sudden malfunction. A little boy sits crying on the metal steps, his shirt front covered in pink goop. A similar pink substance oozes from the bucket at the base of the wheel and drips onto the inner workings of the ride.

"Remember that kid you gave the world's largest cotton candy to?" I ask Bruce, "I believe he projectile vomited the snack over the wheel's gears."

"May I?" Bruce asks, holding a hand out for the binoculars.

"Sure, but it's pretty disgusting," I say with a grin.

He raises his eyebrows at me to say 'I've seen worse', and points the binoculars towards the hotel in the distance.

"The mob is getting ready," he says after adjusting the zoom and watching for a few minutes.

"Those are some high powered binoculars if you can tell that all the way from here," I say, taking the binoculars and looking for myself.

"Fifth floor up, in the corner over the water," Bruce directs.

"I see," I say, "Surprisingly clearly. The Russian mob boss hasn't arrived yet, though. We have time."

I adjust the binoculars and am about to discern how long we'll be stuck up here from the cleanup work when I accidentally focus on the bucket below us. A teenage girl and boy, with his hand in a compromising position on the girl's chest, glare up at me in anger. I hastily sit back down in my seat facing the proper direction and hand the binoculars back to Bruce.

"Awkward," I say, feeling a blush creep up my face.

"What?" Bruce asks and leans over to point the binoculars in the direction of the hotel again.

"The teenagers in the bucket next to us think I was watching them make out," I say.

I snicker slightly at the speed with which Bruce turns around again. He chuckles.

"Kids," he says.

"Thank goodness neither of us is romantic," I joke and prop my feet back up on the seat across from us, "I think we'll be here for a while. Cleanup is not going fast."

Bruce's posture shifts and I sense his eyes on me.

For a time the only sound at the top of the Ferris wheel is the gentle creaking of the bucket as it sways in the wind. I can't help but feel Bruce is waiting for something more than a little kid's puke to be washed off a few mechanical parts. Either the air pressure significantly changes this high up, or our unspoken thoughts cause an anxious atmosphere. Every nerve in my body itches to turn towards Bruce, but I restrain myself. Bad enough I mentioned romance and making out, the last thing I need to do is catch sight of his dark eyes and remember the feel of his arms around me last night.

"How much time do we have left?" I ask with a smile, turning my face to his. Or at least, that's what I plan on saying. Before I can get a word out, Bruce slides over to close the gap between us on the plastic seat, and simply kisses me.

After a moment I force myself to slip out of his grasp. "What?" I exclaim in confusion.

"I consider myself very romantic," Bruce argues teasingly, with his face still perilously close to mine. His fingertips brush my cheek, "Batman and crime fighting are very closely related to adventure with potential for heroic achievement."

"That's not the definition I meant," I say with a laugh, "And you know it."

"And we're a little old to be acting like hormonal teenagers," Bruce adds, pressing his forehead to mine.

"Very true," I concur.

"Lyn," he says, barely a whisper. For a minute we're both completely still.

His hand traces a path through my hair, my nose brushes his. I watch as he hesitates, his eyes staring at my mouth. Bruce's fingers find their way to my ear, gently tugging at my dangling earring. It jingles. He glances at me in surprise.

"A bell?" he asks.

"My mother's," I explain, "She collected them. Bells, not earrings."

His expression softens. The ringing bell sends an alarm to the logical part of my brain, reminding me of the foreboding sense I had in the morning, and of him mentioning Rachel minutes before.

"What did you say, after I closed the door on you earlier this morning?" I ask him.

Bruce tightens his hold on my neck.

"I said," he holds his breath for a moment and his lips pull back into a grin, "I want the tabloids to be correct for a change."

I decide to forgo all replacement worries and I kiss him lightly, nervously. I'm entitled to make a few bad romantic decisions after not straying from the easy, normal path for nearly thirty years. Bruce deepens the kiss, leaning into me as close as possible on the plastic bucket bench. I entwine my fingers around his neck and he lifts me into his lap. Life feels secure with his arms hugging my waist, his hands running down my back. I briefly break the kiss and brush a lock of Bruce's hair out of the way so I can see his eyes. The orange hood must have fallen back, unnoticed, minutes ago.

"What are we doing?" I ask, my logical side once again refusing to remain buried.

"Acting like teenagers," Bruce laughs, "Feeling young again?"

"Speak for yourself. I'm still young," I counter.

He cuts me off by covering my mouth with his. Each subsequent kiss is as wonderful as the first one should have been, instead of being a rushed accident in front of Mary and Floyd. After a while I start to notice the lights in my slightly hazy vision are moving.

"Bruce," I say, pulling away, "We're going around again." I climb off him and straighten my skirt. He smoothes a hair back into place and pulls the orange hood back up. Passing the loading platform is agonizing. As the bucket starts to ascend once more, Bruce and I gravitate towards each other. I smile and use the hood to pull him down to me in another kiss.

"We should seriously stop to think about this," I whisper.

"I have," Bruce says, "Often," and leans in again.

"Often?" I jerk back, "Since when? Couldn't you have told me rather than faking memory loss and avoiding the subject for two days?"

"You over think things," Bruce whispers back with a smile.

"You make things needlessly complicated!" I retort.

"I know," he says, his eyes lighting up mischievously.

I laugh and he takes the opportunity to sneak in another quick kiss. His lips are so soft.

"You're right," I whisper, "I do think too much."

And I proceed to do no thinking whatsoever for the rest of the ride.

I would have been perfectly content to not think for the rest of the evening, or perhaps the rest of my life. Unfortunately every perfect moment ends eventually.

"Use that Bruce Wayne influence," I implore in a whisper as the bucket nears the ground, "Buy out the entire park so we can sit here for hours."

"I have a meeting, remember?" Bruce says with a smile while securing a wayward strand of my hair behind my ear.

"Of course I remember," I answer.

"Using an obviously fake name I booked a room two floors above the hotel suite the Russian mob plans to use. Before…this…and because of my promise, I had intended to be photographed having an illicit affair with a mystery woman, giving you an excuse to break up with me."

"And who would play the mystery woman?" I ask.

"I thought that would be obvious."

"You want me to pretend to have an affair with you behind my own back so I can break up with you over it?" I ask, laughing.

"Yes except…" Bruce starts to say, but pauses, "Haven't you changed your mind?" The blank mask falls over his face again.

"I think we should end it publicly or else our relationship will become far too straightforward. We might get bored," I mock him.

"No," he says, shaking his head roughly, "I told you I can't go back to publicly dating the shallowest, prettiest women I can find."

"There are other intelligent women out there," I remind him.

"Any smarter and I start compromising my fake identity. You're proof of that," he argues.

"I don't believe I'm saying this but…" I chuckle wryly, "While dining with Floyd, I missed the typical idiotic remarks you make during our social outings. Thus, I suppose I can't stand the thought of dating anyone smarter either."

He laughs and we grin at our shared secret. When the ride ends our hands claim each other and we walk in the direction of the hotel. Before us the Edgewater Hotel grips the rim of the rocky cliff over the ocean, desperate not to fall into its namesake. A neon red 'E' rotates above the roof, reflecting a lurid orange light in the waves. Bruce leads me to an alley between the hotel kitchen and another building. The Tumbler eagerly waits, blending seamlessly into the shadows of garbage bins.

"We should change into the costumes before gong in," Bruce says, "The hotel is hosting a special convention. According to Alfred, I've suddenly become an avid fan of some musician. I believe his name started with an 'E'."

"Sounds 'E'ntertaining," I reply, following him to the back of the armored vehicle.

In the trunk of the Tumbler Bruce pulls out a heavy suitcase and duffel bag. Shifting through the contents of the duffle bag, he lifts up a white suit studded with rhinestones.

"Where did that come from? And what unicorn died to make it?" I ask in disbelief.

"Alfred ordered the costume online. From a young woman in Japan who claimed to specialize in…cosplay, I think she called it," Bruce explains.

"For a minute I thought you might have raided Mr. Fox's closet from his disco days."

"It's more Rock 'n' Roll, than disco," Bruce corrects.

"Whatever era the costume came from, I shudder to think of the female equivalent."

In response he holds up a sparkling piece of fabric.

"No way. I draw the line at sequins," I protest, "You wear the dress. I'll take the unicorn pelt."

"Sequins," Bruce offers, rooting around the bottom of the duffel bag to find another article of clothing, "or spandex?"

I glare at him and snatch the iridescent, glittering monstrosity from his left hand.

"Apparently the line at spandex is farther down than sequins," Bruce comments as I change into the dress.

"Was this Alfred's idea?" I ask suspiciously.

"He claimed dressing the part would validate our stay at the hotel and add a layer of authenticity to the ruse," Bruce tosses a blond wig at me to cover my hair with, "He also suggested I 'Party like a hound dog' and appeared severely disappointed when I failed to understand the reference."

I examine my reflection in the Tumbler's windows to make sure I get every strand of escapee hair.

"He's not the one wearing an outfit composed entirely of prickly slabs of metal," I retort, "It itches worse than Eleanor's scratchiest mohair sweater. And the only thing itchier than that sweater is chicken pox."

I receive no response from behind me except the sound of struggling.

"A little help with the jacket?" Bruce asks in a strained voice.

I turn around to find him halfway stuck inside very tight leather. With my guidance he manages to slip his arm in the second sleeve. I survey the entire effect. He tilts his head sardonically, silently daring me to comment.

"I think you're wearing a second skin rather than pants," I snicker.

"And you better not stand directly under any spotlights," he warns.

"You need one last adjustment," I announce and rearrange his already slick hair in a slightly messy version of Elvis' style, "perfect."

We share a brief laugh. He offers his arm.

"That gesture is more Victorian prude than Rock 'n' Roll," I correct and slide an arm around his waist while attaching myself to his hip. He complies and picks up the suitcase with his other hand.

Tonight must be a night of firsts, for as we sneak through the backdoor of the hotel's alley, both of us smile genuinely at the prospect of our imminent performance. Surprisingly we blend perfectly with the crowd of shiny suits and equally shiny black hair inside the hotel. No one notices a tenth Elvis wandering through the lobby and checking in at the front desk. The discovery that multiple people already checked in under Bruce's "King of Rock" pseudonym causes a bit of confusion over who took our suite. After an unlimited credit card changes hands and the host shuffles rooms around, the bellhop wearily stacks our luggage on a cart and wheels it to the elevator.

The doors to the lift open, revealing an impromptu concert being given by a lone Presley in a bevy of adoring fans.

"Out!" the bellhop barks, "Can't you read the sign?" he points to a sheet of paper pasted to the elevator's wall length mirrors. The sign reads: 'Absolutely no elevator performances. No exceptions.'

The audience grumbles and shuffles into the lobby.

"This is our first convention," Bruce says on the ride up, "I wasn't entirely prepared for the mob."

I snort and artfully turn the laugh into a sneeze.

"I do apologize for the pandemonium," the bellhop replies in a stiff voice obviously accustomed to more refined customers than people in Presley costumes, "You were lucky to find a vacant room. I was under the impression the Elvis Impersonators Conference booked the entire hotel a year in advance.

"Luck had nothing to do with it," Bruce drawls in an arrogant, I-own-the-world manner.

"Yeah? Well, they choose the hotel because after one glance at our sign from an observation tower, Elvis concluded we built the neon 'E' specially for him and insisted on staying here," the bellhop gossips.

"How long will the conference last?" I ask.

He grimaces, "A week. And they're not paying me nearly enough overtime."

During the walk from the elevator to our room we pass three Elvis impersonators and an elderly couple decked out in Elvis merchandise from head to toe. Our room offers a pleasant respite from the glittering outfits and constant crooning.

"We need to think up some kind of revenge on Alfred," I joke while Bruce and I unload the supplies from the suitcase.

Bruce chuckles and sets up his laptop.

"Here is the schematic of the room two floors below us," he says, "We'll break in through the glass door overlooking the water rather than the window facing the amusement park. The chances of someone seeing us are smaller on that side of the hotel. Taking down the mob in a confined space complicates things. Hard to rely on shadows and misdirection when the area is well lit with minimal entrances. The lighting configuration is slightly different from the room we're in now. The fixture in the ceiling and bedside lamp are identical. But two lights are embedded in the wall. I can take out the first two. You go for the wall lights."

"Why is a drug meeting being held at a hotel during an Elvis Presley convention?" I ask, strapping on Eleanor's knitted gi.

"Desperation. The Edgewater is the closest the mob bosses dare get to the drug shipping warehouse. They leave the danger for hired goons."

"Batman is becoming bad for business," I say, stressing the alliteration in amusement.

A proud smirk slips across Bruce's face, "My fear tactics prove to be successful," he agrees, "However, I'm worried they'll start detecting Batman's avoidance of the light and start assembling during the day."

"And when that happens, you'll find some way of buying the sun and turning it off when necessary," I joke.

"I'll have Mr. Fox investigate a way to construct an artificial moon for scheduled eclipses."

"While you're at it, could you program morning to come later so we have more time to sleep?"

"I can block out the sun for good and solve the skin cancer problem."

"Please don't," I start handing him pieces of the bat suit, "One form of cancer might be cured but we'd have even more of an energy crisis on our hands."

"I guess we need to prevent the mobsters from meeting during the day after all," Bruce concludes with a smile.

I incline my head in agreement and leave him to put on his suit while I pin my hair back with lots of hairspray to prevent it from getting in my face. In action movies women always fight effortlessly with flawless locks streaming behind them. Last night I found out the hard way that the less glamorous reality involves stringy, sweaty clumps of bedraggled hair. I prefer the least distracting option: a ponytail. With my hair secure, I yank the turtleneck up as high as it can go and pull the hood down, fitting it snuggly around my face.

"Ready?" Batman asks when I reappear in the room.

I nod bravely, not trusting my voice to hide my nerves.

He goes first, acrobatically swinging from our balcony onto the floor below and then the next. I wait for the crash of the glass door breaking and slide down on a rope. I give the cord a second tug and the mechanism releases to recoil the rope into a harness on my back. Inside the room is dim since Batman already smashed two of the lights with throwing stars. That leaves the sickly blue, decorative wall ensconces for me. Difficult to break, I'll need to physically switch off the light and jam the plate cover. In the middle of the room Batman fends off a dozen attackers. I dodge a punch from a lone thug too scared to engage the caped crusader. I twist a gun out of the man's hand and send it skittering into the darker recesses of the room. Keeping to the shadows I move silently and swiftly towards the opposite wall. Just as I'm about to douse the entire room in darkness a thug runs at me from the side.

Reflexively I catch his punch and launch into the same move that dropped Jonathan Crane. The sweep would have worked if the thug hadn't been over six feet of solid muscle. Instead of going down he quickly regains his balance and sends a foot straight into my stomach. I clench my abdominal muscles to help deaden the impact, but I still stumble back. The man approaches, preparing to thoroughly beat me up, and sniggers at the idea. I block his second punch and nearly break my knuckles getting my own back. From my left I see a blur of flesh as another fist soars into my face. I duck, elbow my second attacker in the side, and catch him in a knee lock, pushing him off balance. The first thug straightens out the second and they turn on me in unison. Too late, I realize I've foolishly trapped myself in a corner of the wall.

The room suddenly goes pitch black, saving me from becoming a bloody pulp. A shadow emerges, engulfs my attackers, and disappears. The sound of fighting swiftly dissipates and the number of people standing in the room reduces to one. Next to me, seated at the head of the meeting table, the silhouette of a man laughs witlessly.

"Betrayed," the Russian chuckles.

The darkest shadow in the room advances on him. Behind the two, I invisibly return to the balcony and prepare the grapnel gun.

A spiraling light flares as sudden as it left, briefly illuminating Batman looming over the Russian mob boss. Outside the window the spiral explodes into a firework. I watch Batman reach out to grab the Russian. Glass shatters. The Russian collapses against his chair. The dying screams of the fireworks warn me before I'm blinded again. I grope my way towards the body in the dark. I can't see clearly enough with my hood on, but I can hear his ragged breathing and feel the blood spilling on his chest. Without a second thought I throw the hood back so I can see my attempt to save the man's life.

Music strikes up in the amusement park, booming through the thin hotel wall. In the next instant the sky erupts in a cacophony of fireworks. I turn in horror to stare at the window, "Close the curtains!" I yell. Bruce cuts off the window and I turn back to my patient. My dead patient.

"I can't do anything. It's no use," I say grimly, "Who shot the gun?"

"No one in the room," Batman growls.

Batman stands up in disgust. He sweeps across the room to investigate the shattered window facing the amusement park. I tug my hood back on and follow.

"If a sniper is still watching…" I start to say.

"We would be dead," Batman remarks bitterly, "A waste of a night."

I leave him by the window and start to tie up unconscious mobsters for the police to find. Organization remains the one thing I'll always be good at.

"Finish up here. Like we discussed," Batman sighs, "I need to find the origin of that bullet."

He climbs onto the balcony railing and takes flight in one graceful leap, soaring through the residual firework smoke. Dutifully following his instructions, I climb up to our room. I hastily repack everything, slip into my sequin dress, and leave.

"Bellhop!" I yell at the man behind his desk in the lobby, "You were supposed to come up and collect my luggage an hour ago!"

"Excuse me?" the bellhop asks, clearly affronted.

"My…special friend came down here an hour ago to complain about the noise levels in our suite and check out. He said he would send up someone for our luggage!" I play the hysterical, scorned woman very well. And the chaos of the hotel provides an easy way for me to instill a false memory in the bellhop's head.

"I assure you, I was not called up to your room," the bellhop calmly sates in an attempt to placate me.

"He said he would request you specifically since you seem to be the only competent person working this establishment!"

"Ah," the bellhop stutters, unsure of whether to admit to forgetting an encounter that never happened, but quite probably could have occurred, or to lie and uphold the compliment. He conveniently chooses the more flattering option, "I do remember him leaving. But he simply instructed me to get his car and didn't say a word about you or luggage."

"What?" I exclaim, drawing most of the eyes in the room, "That…" my breath catches on what obviously would have been a very bad word.

"My sympathies," the bellhop says demurely, "But it would appear your 'special friend' took off."

I pretend to bristle at the suggestion, "Nonsense! I'll find him. Order me a taxi!"

And, with an anxious bellhop darting about me, eager for the turbulent woman to leave, I'm escorted out to the driveway and into a waiting yellow cab.

The breathy whisper of the Tumbler's hatch wakes me from a restless sleep in the bunker as it swings open. Batman steps out and silently hands me a shell. I run my finger along the "D.S." engraved in the side of the casing.

"Did you find the culprit?" I ask.

"No. He left that on the Ferris Wheel bucket after shooting the Russian," Batman says curtly.

"D.S…." I say, letting the letters call up words in my mind.

"Initials?" Batman suggests.

"Too obvious. He wants to be clever, not get caught," I dismiss the idea, "Assuming the assassin takes his name from the job, I'm going to guess D stands for Death in some form," I say as Bruce emerges from the bat cowl, "Which narrows down the list considerably. Deadly Shot would make the most sense. To shoot a man in a hotel from a moving bucket, his aim must be perfect…" the pencil I'm absent-mindedly twirling in my right hand spins out of control and clatters to the floor.

"What?" Bruce asks, shucking off the rest of the suit and leaving it where it lies.

"Nothing," I say, picking up my pencil and writing Deadly Shot on a post-it note, "But I remember being forced to watch someone else with perfect aim tonight."

"Who?"

"Floyd Lawton.," I say and recount the carnival games.

"He told Feely his mob contacts were gone," Bruce says apprehensively.

"And I can't see an assassin of this caliber being inept enough to throw evidence of his skills around to everyone. But it might be worth investigating."

"Answers can wait till morning," Bruce sighs.

He stands and stretches to pull his shirt off. The shirt gets discarded onto the pile of black Kevlar and Bruce disappears behind my little room's dividing curtain. I suppose, after the kiss we shared on the Ferris wheel, he expects me to follow him. I step through the curtain and find him sprawled across the bed on his stomach. Before joining him I dig through the clothes pile in my trunk for a night shirt and pants. Feeling much more comfortable out of the sequins, I'm about to slip into the covers when Bruce interrupts me.

"It never ends," he says, his exhausted voice muffled in the pillow.

"What never ends?" I ask, sitting on the edge of the bed next to him.

"I catch one, find a lead to another, and the cycle repeats."

I sigh, unable to offer an answer. Silence settles over us for a couple minutes.

"You know," I change the subject, "I thought being with you would mean more nights spent at the penthouse, and less in costume. I'm pleased to find out I was wrong. Nothing has really changed."

Bruce sleepily takes my hand, "some things have changed."

I smile, but it's a thin, worried expression. I empathize with his frustration and concern over the often futile nature of Batman's work. Neither of us knows whether the battle against Gotham's criminal underworld can end successfully, or ever end at all. Bringing to mind Jessica's comment yesterday, I doubt even Bruce Wayne has a complete idea of what he wishes, or needs success to be.

I may not have answers, but I can provide some comfort. I lift the sheet to reveal his bare back and trace the scars lightly. Carefully, softly, I massage his tired muscles, hoping to bring some relief. Bruce remains quiet, but he half smiles into the pillow.

After a while my own exhausted arms protest and I stop. Bruce rolls over and sits up in front of me.

"Thank you," he says, cupping my face in his hand, "For everything."

Without saying another word, Bruce wraps me in a hug and lowers us both back down on the bed. I fall asleep entangled in his arms.


	28. Week 4:Thursday

A/N: So I officially have a new beta now: Paralelsky. She is awesome for putting up with my initial bad ideas and atrocious rough drafts to find errors. Thank you!

True story about when I tried to post this chapter yesterday: right as I took a break from work to submit my word doc a huge lightning bolt flashed through the sky and the power went out in my office for a millisecond, causing the internet to die. As it turns out rain flooded the local substation and they had to cut power to keep a transformer from blowing up, but I figured it was clearly a sign I needed to edit more and wait to post until Saturday morning. So yeah, blame crazy Pittsburgh weather for the late posting lol.

As pointed out in reviews, the previous chapter was posted exactly three years to the day since I posted the very first chapter! Crazy coincidence! I can't believe it's been that long, or that this story spiraled into such a giant undertaking. A huge thank you to the reviewers and readers who have been with me from the beginning! You guys have amazing patience and I hope to make it worth your while with these new updates! And thank you to all the new readers; I'm excited to see people taking the time to catch up with my story! Without all the reviews and support I would never have gotten this far!

Also thanks to reviews I'm posting a new poll. Pick one: Lynruce, Lruce, Brunet, Lyce, Bryn, Brynnet, Lyruce, Bruyn, Lyuce, Lynce, Brucynnet, Brucet, Lynuce, other? Humor my silliness please.

Thursday:

"Good morning Master Bruce and Miss Lyn," Alfred's cheerful voice drifts into my head. Rubbing the crust out of my eyes, I try to lift my head from the pillow and discover any movement sends prickles of pain tugging across my scalp due to someone else's head buried in my hair.

"Bruce," I wince, "I can't move…"

He lifts his head, sleepily murmurs wordless confusion, and unwittingly solves my problem by freeing my hair.

"Thanks," I say and smooth my flyaway hair to avoid further discomfort.

"Sorry," he apologizes, probably unaware of the reason, and settles his head back down. His arm traps my waist as he snuggles closer, still half asleep, and renders any attempt to get out of bed useless.

"Glad to see you two woke up. Finally," Alfred quips with emphasis on 'woke up'. His comment, excessively laden with subtext, belatedly reminds me Bruce's butler is watching Bruce curl around me. Embarrassed, I glance up in time to catch Alfred's wink as he sets a breakfast tray down on the bedside table.

Bruce shifts his weight onto one elbow and smiles at Alfred from over my shoulder.

"7:30 is unusually early for my wake up call," Bruce observes with a hint of amusement.

"Lucius Fox requests an audience in Applied Sciences this morning," Alfred explains, "I told him I would inform you."

"Did he say about what?" Bruce asks, curious.

"A device containing the potential to 'level the playing field', as he put it," Alfred replies, "He neglected to elaborate further than that."

"Thank you," Bruce says, nodding, "Tell Lucius I'll be there as soon as I can." He gives Alfred a look that clearly requests the butler take his leave.

Alfred smiles pleasantly and disappears behind a curtain. Bruce half sighs, half chuckles, and rests his head on my shoulder.

"Did Alfred's 'waking up' comment imply what I think he was implying?" I ask in a whisper.

"Probably," Bruce agrees, grinning at me, "Judging from the various hints, he started plotting this morning a while ago."

"Plotting? Alfred? Never," I roll over to face Bruce and kiss him deeply to make sure he remembers last night. Turns out he does remember and he proves his excellent memory very well.

"Your suit, sir," Alfred interrupts, bringing in the striped garment and draping it across the back of a chair. Bruce abruptly breaks our kiss and sits up.

"And the newspaper," Alfred hands the paper to Bruce.

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce says on the verge of laughter.

"Of course," Alfred smiles again, thoroughly enjoying himself, "Do you require anything else?"

"Bring around the car," Bruce answers, "I'll be out soon."

"Very good, Master Wayne," Alfred excuses himself and the rumbling of the lift indicates his departure from the bunker.

"You could make him wear the sequined Elvis costume," I suggest, "For revenge."

Bruce laughs and starts to dress, "Alfred might actually enjoy that. He has a theatrical side he tries to hide. His appreciation of theatrics where what convinced him to accept the bat suit without too many questions."

"I'm trying to imagine Alfred onstage singing Elvis Presley in a black wig, but I'm failing," I tell him dryly, "Photographic evidence, or your butler's dramatic alter ego never happened."

"I'm sure he destroyed any evidence in existence," Bruce responds.

"Too bad," I sigh, launching myself out of bed and following Bruce's example, "I would have liked revenge for those knowing glances he kept giving us." I button my jeans, straighten my shirt, and run a quick brush through my hair. Not having to wear the usual business casual for work in the Archives is refreshing.

"We could arrange for him to interrupt an even more awkward scene," Bruce suggests with raised eyebrows and mischievous eyes.

I speechlessly stare at him and end up laughing. I can feel myself blushing like a schoolgirl instead of the twenty-nine year old woman I am - with plenty of experience in that area, thank you very much. But I suspect the images of the muscular, toned Bruce Wayne that his proposition conjures up could make anyone blush. Or maybe he has that effect solely on me.

The light catches his right eye, momentarily distracting me from my fantasies. "Hold on," I say and step closer to examine his face, "You have a black eye. I thought your mask was supposed to prevent such injuries." his eyes follow me as my hand carefully traces the outline of his brow.

"One of the men last night caught me unaware with a club to the face," Bruce admits, wincing when my fingers touch a sensitive area of skin underneath his eye, "I hoped it wouldn't show."

"I can hide it using foundation," I offer, tugging him to sit down on the bed and digging through my bag full of Mary's makeup castoffs, "But it would be useful to invent an excuse just in case." I shake a blob of the thick cover-up onto my finger and gingerly apply it to Bruce's face.

"A wayward golf ball?" He asks, probably thinking of the tournament Sunday.

"Believable," I tease, "considering your skills at golf."

"Even I can't hit myself in the eye with my own swing. It would have to be yours."

"No. You're not ruining my golf reputation."

"What reputation?"

"Exactly. I don't know if I'm bad at the sport yet. Give me a chance before you sully my name."

Bruce chuckles, "I'll think of something else then. Mobster thugs don't socialize in the same circles as business men. No one at Wayne Enterprises will think anything of the black eye other than the stupid antics of a useless playboy."

"In the meantime take the bottle," I give him the foundation, "Reapply the makeup during the day and don't rub your eye or it'll come off faster."

"I'll make sure to jam the men's room door before I stand in front of the mirror to dab at my eye," Bruce says.

"I suppose reapplying makeup is a little more conspicuous as a man than a woman," I concede with a grin.

Bruce nods and slips the bottle of foundation into a pocket of his briefcase, "Did you read the headline on the paper?" He hands it to me.

"_Batman's Secret Identity Revealed: Elvis Presley_," I read, "_Batman knocked out twelve Russian mobsters and shot a mob boss in the head Wednesday night while attending an Elvis Impersonation Conference…_" I trail off in shock, "They think you, or Elvis, killed the man."

"I know."

"But you don't kill."

"I know."

"We have to prove you didn't kill the Russian," I insist.

"We have to find D.S." he amends.

"Any idea where to start?" I ask, "Perhaps with Elvis Presley."

"I have some better ideas," he says mysteriously without a snort of laughter.

"Let me know if I can help," I prompt, expecting an assignment.

"Not this time," he says, "Not with an assassin."

"Bruce," I sigh in exasperation, "How many times?"

"The assassin might have seen your face in that brief instant the curtains were open. I won't let you become a target," he says solemnly.

"How do you intend to get D.S. then?" I ask.

"Draw him out and catch him in the act."

"Then let me become a target," I say as if it were obvious.

"No," Bruce says curtly.

"Who then?" I ask.

"I don't know," he admits, "I need more information prior to planning. Especially on his motives. But first, I need his identity."

"Fine," I agree, "But whatever you learn, tell me as much as possible."

"Okay," he capitulates, "Where will you be today?"

"Teresa's camp," I reply, "According to her, you planned on staying there tonight to stir up more publicity."

"I did."

"Then I can strike a tent and roll out a few sleeping bags," I say, "I've never been camping so the experience should be fun."

"Good luck with the tent," he says dubiously.

"It can't be that hard," I scoff.

"Maybe I should join you later," Bruce says, "A collapsing tent could provide a good excuse for a black eye."

"Any tent I assemble won't collapse," I counter.

"Similar to that filing cabinet I leaned on when we first met?" Bruce asks.

"Not my fault. I didn't build the cabinets in Archives," I argue.

He smiles, stands, and collects his briefcase, "Do you want a ride to Teresa's camp?"

"No thanks, I'd rather take the motorcycle," I reply.

"Can I see you for lunch?" he asks.

"Will you stand me up?"

"No."

"Okay. In that case, I'll meet you in the lobby of Wayne Tower at noon," I confirm.

"Okay," he closes the distance between us with a brief parting kiss.

I watch him cross the bunker, taking in his business suit and briefcase.

"I have to admit this is a little unusual for me," I say, "Sending my professional looking boyfriend off to work in the morning."

Bruce turns around on the lift and raises an eyebrow in response.

"Before you my dates mostly consisted of artists," I explain, "Plenty of paint smudges, tattoos, and piercings in interesting places. Not a lot of expensive Italian fabrics, shiny shoes, and ties."

Bruce glances down briefly and signals the invisible trigger to elevate the floor.

"I wouldn't worry about us getting too Stepford," he reassures me airily.

"True," I agree, "Batman pretty much nixes that."

A tight lipped smile forms on his face, but I catch a hint of yearning in his eyes before he disappears through the ceiling. Without allowing myself time to ponder Bruce's indecipherable expression, I collect a days worth of clothing into a bag, grab my helmet, snatch up the leather jacket, and wheel the bike out after Bruce. By the time I reach ground level and drive off, Bruce and Alfred are long gone. A part of me, the romantic sliver of my personality which is thrilled by Bruce's attentions, longs to spend the entire day attached to his hip. And due to Bruce's unusual lunch request, a sneaking suspicion tells me Bruce might share my feelings. Thankfully, both of us retain enough practicality not to give in to impulses. Yet for once in my life, the need to be in the company of other people overwhelms me as I mentally prepare my course through the streets of Gotham to Teresa's camp.

My wish is granted the minute I arrive at the site. Reporters swarm over every bare patch of concrete in the camp. Scattered between the reporters, glaring daggers at anyone who looks at them strangely, loom members of a mysterious private police force. As soon as my helmet comes off, people recognize my face and surround me to beg for interviews. I nearly agree complacently before I spot Teresa fighting through the crowd.

"Lyn!" Teresa yells, pushing a couple cameras out of her face to get to me. She grabs my hand and drags me towards her tent, "I've been dealing with these people all day. It's great publicity, but the constant stream of reporters and gawking onlookers is causing unforeseen problems. The Porta-potty filled up after only an hour. We've had to rent out the neighboring restaurants' and churches' bathrooms."

"Wow," I say, "I had no idea our antics the other night would have such effect."

"Everyone wants to hear about how I saved the great Bruce Wayne," Teresa says with a laugh, "Yet they don't listen to me at all. I've told them over and over again that you were the one who got him out of his chains, but they pigheadedly continue to believe you were kidnapped too."

"Let them," I tell her in relief, "I don't mind not having my name in the papers. In fact, you could invent some story to go along with it. Maybe you saved Bruce from being pushed into a fiery pit deep in the bowels of Gotham's sewers. I seem to remember him screaming like a little girl. But please don't make me out to be a flimsy damsel in distress. At least let me give the Scarecrow a good kick before I'm sentenced to my death."

Teresa giggles, "If I have your permission to make up stories, I certainly will. I've been longing to ever since the National Inquirer asked me if it was true that Batman became a sasquatch-crocodile and is now helping the Scarecrow. I wanted to tell the reporter he got it confused: Bruce Wayne secretly turns into the crocodile but only on the full moon. And sasquatch is Batman's secret identity."

"Sounds right," I say with a grin.

"Oh, don't encourage me or I might actually do it!" Teresa says with delight, "Anyway, here is the tent for you and your boyfriend," she slaps a large plastic bundle in my arms, "If you need help setting it up, just ask."

"Thanks," I say, "But I think I'm okay on my own."

"Suit yourself," Teresa says, "But I should warn you other people have been having problems with the tents. We ran out of the newer ones and these came out of the shelter basement. The canvas probably hasn't been stretched under the light of day since the 70's."

I nod in acceptance of her warning and duck out of her tent. Feeling proudly self-sufficient I carry my tent kit to the clear spot of cement a couple camps down from Teresa's. The never-failing organizational side of me takes over and I arrange the tent poles by size and the connecters by shape. I stand up to admire my work and allow the scattered dust and dirt caked onto the equipment to settle. Rolling up my sleeves, I search around me to find the instructions; the non-existent instructions, probably lost eons ago when someone constructed the tent for the first time.

Telling myself I'm perfectly capable of putting together a couple poles and an expanse of plastic, in addition to remembering the need to prove Bruce wrong, I seize two of the plastic supports and start connecting ends. After fifteen minutes of work, I step back to survey the result. The lopsided, misshapen bubble leaning precariously to the left fails to meet the expectations I had when I began the task.

"You swapped the poles," Teresa states from behind me with a laugh, "The longer ones should go where the shorter ones are. And some of the connecters are connecting in the wrong places."

"Please don't tell Bruce," I say miserably, "If he discovers a tent defeated me, I'll never hear the end of it."

"Considering a sleeping bag might be able to defeat Bruce's assembling abilities, I wouldn't be too worried," Teresa says with a wink, "But your secret is safe with me."

"He's not that stupid," I say defensively.

"I know, I'm sorry," Teresa says with a grin, "The insults come so easy. I am trying to get over my prejudice of the rich and indolent. Him staying overnight to support my cause definitely helps," she sighs, "Dare I say he's growing on me? Just a bit."

"One look at my tent, and he'll book a room in the nearest hotel," I say dryly.

"In that case, let me make amends for my careless comment," Teresa says grandly, "I'll find Music-man and send him your way. He helps all the newcomers set up tents."

"Music-man?" I ask.

"Yeah, one of our homeless regulars at the shelter. He doesn't talk, so no one knows his name," Teresa explains, "You'll understand when you meet him." She leaves me with that cryptic pronouncement. A couple minutes later a tall man in an overlarge yellow winter coat dances over to my campsite. Gigantic headphones cover his ears. I'm clearly missing out on whatever music blasts through the speakers, because he energetically enjoys the beat by bouncing up and down, his shaggy blonde hair shaking everywhere. He puts me in mind of an angry-at-the-world alternative rocker but one wearing a very happy smile on what little of his face I can see. Within seconds he disassembles my tent and rearranges the various components in the proper order. He hums slightly as he starts to fit every part together perfectly.

Humbly upstaged, I sit on a rock and open a new page of my sketchbook. At least I'm good for something. For the next twenty minutes sketching gestures of Music-man's artful combination of dancing and building completely engrosses me. Occasionally he pauses in his work, performs a few leaps and emphatic hand gestures, and returns to work. During these times I'm sorely tempted to join him in his wild abandon. However, I'd feel a little silly since I can't actually hear the music, so my self-consciousness keeps me rooted to my seat, drawing. Yet the freedom to dance without care remains alluring. Ultimately, Music-man finishes the task in three times the amount of time it took me. Only ten minutes of that comprised actual work on the tent.

"Great!" Teresa gushes, striding up and giving Music-man a high five. She spontaneously starts dancing next to him and humming her own version of the unheard music he's listening to. The trade and embellishment of dance moves passed between the two grows more and more outrageous. Clearly impromptu dance-offs are a usual thing for them. I smile and add Teresa to my gesture drawings.

After completing a strange spin and unconventional head wiggle, Teresa strikes a pose, signaling the end. A scattering of applause and appreciative laughter comes from the surrounding tents. Teresa waves to everyone, waves to Music-man as he goes dancing off to find a new partner, and squats heavily on the rock next to me.

"Phew," she says, "Everyone says I'm a horrible dancer, but they all have to admit I've got enthusiasm," she notices my sketches with a groan, "Oh no, you didn't draw me during that, did you?"

"I did," I show her the book.

"Thank you for depicting me in all my full figured glory," she says with a grin, "If you want to draw a dancer you should ask my sister. She is the graceful one in the family with fifteen years of ballet under her belt. What are you doing all these for anyway? Practice?"

"Practice," I agree, hesitant to admit the real reason, "Well, and maybe to submit to the Gotham Biennial."

"You mean my uncoordinated dance moves are going to be hanging in a museum?" Teresa asks, cracking up in laughter.

"I'm not accepted yet," I say, "I submitted examples months ago for review. The board will reveal the results soon."

"Good luck," Teresa says, examining my book critically, "Though I'd prefer if you left my name off these particular drawings."

"Do you dance often?" I ask teasingly.

"It's Music-man's way of bonding with people. I've been helping out at the homeless shelter since I was eight when we first moved to Gotham to live with my grandparents. Grandma and grandpa ran the shelter for years until they passed away. After we finished the weekly dinners my mom would put on some music to clean up to. Jessica and I would go crazy, grandma would chair dance, and Music-man would swing as he bussed and wiped the tables down," she explains, "That's how I got involved in all this," she gestures proudly to the protest, "I couldn't stand seeing the homeless shelter I spent over half my life volunteering in be destroyed. Marshall's threats spurred me to action. Otherwise I probably would have stayed a small contributor to Harvey Dent's campaign."

"So you grew up around here? The tenements are nearly as bad as my old neighborhood," I say, thinking of home.

"Our house remained one of the few not controlled by slumlords," Teresa says bitterly, "But yes, I grew up here. For the longest time I was terrified of my own neighborhood."

"Me too," I admit with embarrassment, "Coming back to Gotham after studying in a posh boarding school made me ashamed of my dad and his insistence on staying."

"Exactly," Teresa says, "I stuck to my well traveled routes to my inner-city school and the shelter, and mostly kept to myself. But eventually my mother realized how withdrawn and anti-social I was getting apart from the people at the shelter, and decided she needed to fix that."

"How?" I ask.

"Fighting lessons," Teresa says proudly, "Three days a week I went all the way across town to a tiny dojo run by an old woman determined to teach young women how to defend themselves on the streets. Stuck out like a sore thumb in the classes, too, with most of the students being tiny Asian girls. I kept at it though and gained a lot of confidence. It's nice to be comforted by the fact that when people look at me and see fat and flabby, in reality I pack enough muscle to pound them into the concrete. Not that I ever would. It's just nice to know."

"Speaking of scrawny and weak," I say with a glance down at myself, "I don't think I'll ever be able to properly defend myself in a fight." I tell her about how I took down Crane with ease, but that I'm worried I won't be able to go up against someone bigger. I leave out the fact that I actually did fail to immobilize someone and nearly got Batman hurt because of it.

"Weak?" Teresa scoffs jovially, "No, you simply need to learn to leverage your power better," she calls out to a giant, bulky twenty-something man carrying a guitar, "Hey, Wei! Want to be part of a demonstration?"

He stops and bashfully glances back at her, "You mean holding signs on a street corner or marching?"

"No I was thinking a lesson more practical for Lyn, here," she says, gesturing to me, "I need to give her a crash course in fighting."

"I've never fought anyone in my life," Wei says, dumbfounded.

"Yes, but you're big and you look strong underneath that collared polo," Teresa comments.

Wei shifts his arms in embarrassment, "Lifting weights makes playing drums easier."

"Perfect," Teresa announces and bounds up, having regained her breath after the dancing. She waves her hands for me to stand as well. Wei sets his guitar down and joins us.

"Now, there are certain points on the body that when triggered can cause extreme pain to immobilize the recipient." Teresa says.

In response to her announcement Wei's eyes widen. His expression betrays his trepidation at his agreement.

"I'm going to teach you the basics: easiest to implement, but still very effective," Teresa continues and takes Wei's arm. She starts to explain the various methods to put someone in a thumb lock. I make sure to carefully sketch out every sequence she demonstrates. In between detailed descriptions Teresa works me through examples with Wei. The three of us concentrate single-mindedly on the lessons and I nearly lose track of time. Thankfully the tent city eats lunch promptly at noon, and Wei exhibits a natural gift for sniffing out cooking food, so I receive a half hour warning before I need to meet Bruce at Wayne Enterprises. Thanking Teresa for the illuminating education, I pack up my bag and ride off.

I arrive at Wayne Enterprises precisely on time. The company's namesake, however, remains to be seen. I don't know what deluded part of me believed Bruce Wayne would magically turn punctual overnight. Most likely the part easily distracted by kisses and fine eyes.

I tiptoe into the lobby and take a seat as far from Mary's desk as possible. No need to rub our date in Mary's face. Mary's eyes briefly flick over me, but she pretends not to notice. After ten minutes of reading an extremely boring magazine I remember the change in my relationship with Bruce remained inward. While my emotions may be soaring on new heights, Gotham City still sees an indolent playboy and an easily forgotten face in the socialite's rotating parade of temporary girlfriends. I've lasted the longest so far, but rich men's tastes can be fickle and tomorrow's tabloid could be announcing the next notch on the bedpost. Fortunately I know Bruce better than the rest of Gotham, so I wait.

Thirty minutes later, I comfort myself in the knowledge that he's merely maintaining the act.

Two hours later, I'm force myself to admit I might have jumped into this relationship too soon.

The lobby fills with workers returning from lunch and then empties, leaving me desperately trying to hide behind my magazine.

"Lyn!" Mary calls out, unable to ignore me now that we're the only two people in the room, "I didn't notice you stopped by."

"I'm waiting for Bruce," I glumly explain.

"Oh," Mary's face falls into a fake sympathetic expression, "Didn't you know? I watched him leave for lunch with Floyd Lawton hours ago."

"He did?" I ask, stiffly getting to my feet.

"Yeah," Mary verifies with relish, "They seemed very friendly. I guess they haven't let you get between them."

I force a smile, "No, you're right, Bruce still considers Floyd a friend."

"That's good," Mary's tone of voice goes cruel, "Some people understand the custom of placing friends before lovers."

"Floyd and I were never lovers," I correct her, my embarrassment at being stood up yet again turning into anger, "And I put an end to all his dating nonsense. Feel free to throw yourself at him."

"I don't throw myself at men," Mary claims haughtily.

"You do," I say bluntly, "And then let them walk all over you."

"Oh, like you did with Bruce Wayne?" Mary counters with malice.

The comment drives directly into a very sore nerve. My only counter argument of 'it's complicated' sounds more pathetic than usual in my mind since it's not supposed to be quite so complicated anymore. I swallow my pride and turn my back on Mary, hoping Bruce has a suitable excuse to ease the pain. While I walk away from Wayne Enterprises my cell phone buzzes cheerfully.

"Hello?" I answer eagerly.

"Lyn," a woman's voice moans into my ear, "I need a shoulder to cry on."

"Genevieve?" I ask, surprised, "What's wrong?"

"Can't talk here. I'm outside Wayne Enterprises. Come out to my car," she says and hangs up without waiting for my answer. I distinctly remember another Lawton similarly assuming I'll oblige every request. With one difference: Genevieve faithfully paid for an unfinished portrait her husband slashed to pieces.

My polite gratitude results in me lounging in an uncomfortable floral armchair in the fanciest bar I've ever seen, comforting a very aggrieved woman.

"Tell me everything," I sooth, "Start from the beginning."

I prop open my sketchbook and prepare to draw. A lone buzz from my cell phone distracts me. Genevieve blows her nose on a dainty handkerchief with an unladylike honk.

"One minute," I stop her from launching into a story and pull out my phone to turn it off, "This dratted device has been emitting strange single buzzes all afternoon. I think it's malfunctioning."

"Single buzzes?" Genevieve asks mid-sniffle, "That usually means you've got a text message."

"A what?" I ask.

Genevieve sniggers gracefully, "And here my son told me I was living in the dark ages. Give me your phone."

I comply, looking over her shoulder as she pans through my menu to find the messages section.

"See here," she points, "It says you have seventeen new messages from Bruce Wayne. And three from Alfred. You permit Bruce Wayne's butler to text you?"

"What?" I snatch the phone back in surprise. Sure enough, when I click on the open button the first message from Bruce pops up:

_ Bruce 3:09pm: Alfred observed you might not use texting. Sorry._

"Text messages are ordered backwards aren't they?" I ask Genevieve after reading Bruce's rather ominous text message. I'm nearly dying of curiosity to find out what the previous sixteen messages contain.

"Some phones do arrange the latest message on top," Genevieve agrees, "Your phone appears to be from of the stupid phone generation rather than the smart one. Therefore, it probably does."

"Do you mind if I read these?" I ask, opening the next one:

_ Bruce 2:50pm: Reply or I'll resort to fake drunk dialing you._

"Go ahead," Genevieve says and mops up tears with a new handkerchief, "Can I talk while you do?"

"Sure," I say and read the next text:

_ Bruce 2:47pm: Floyd's endless ability to ingest copious amounts of booze and not pass out continues to amaze me._

"It's happening all over again," Genevieve sighs. She takes a dainty sip of wine.

"What is?" I ask.

_ Bruce 2:26pm: Alfred says you're not answering him either. Are you ok?_

"George has driven another son away! He's driving everyone away," Genevieve sags dramatically in her chair, "I'm desolate."

"From Bruce's messages, I'm getting the feeling Floyd is fairly broken up over whatever happened as well," I console her.

_ Bruce 2:22pm: Please don't tell me you hate me in a text message. Break it to me gently._

"I don't even know where he is right now," Genevieve bemoans, "He has nowhere to go. And George insists he can never come home again."

"George kicked Floyd out of the house?" I ask in surprise.

_ Bruce 1:53pm: I can't compete with Floyd's level of drunkenness. Alfred prearranged for the alcohol I'm ordering to be replaced with juice, but in a real contest Floyd could easily drink me under the table._

"Not only did George kick my child out of his own home, but the man also cut off all of Floyd's funds," Genevieve explains, "Floyd doesn't know how to survive without monetary support. He has no interest in business."

"I'm sure he's a fast learner," I tell her gently, "Floyd will be fine."

_ Bruce 1:45pm: Mirroring Floyd's sloppy gestures and slurred speech tires me. Respond and give me at least one form of intelligible communication to relieve me._

"In fact I have it on good authority that Floyd is out being comforted by friends right now," I say wryly.

_ Bruce 1:40pm: Floyd's conversation grows dull. Wish you were here instead._

"Where will my baby sleep?" Genevieve sobs, "Oh, that evil man. He deserves everything coming to him."

"Perhaps Floyd can crash on a friend's couch," I suggest.

_ Bruce 1:32pm: If I text Alfred to text you will you answer him?_

"George even cut Floyd out of the family plan for our phones," Genevieve laments, "I have no way of contacting Floyd."

"Do you want me to try to get Floyd's new number?" I ask her.

_ Bruce 1:14pm_: _How long do you plan to ignore me?_

"Please!" Genevieve begs, snorting into a handkerchief.

_ Bruce 1:10pm: If I was at Wayne Enterprises right now you'd make a witty remark on my tardiness._

"I'll ask Bruce the next time I see him," I say and give her a fresh hanky.

"Bruce is such a good friend for Floyd," Genevieve gushes, a shaky smile flitting across her face, "A good influence."

_ Bruce 12:54pm: No useful information out of Floyd yet. Bar tab running high. _

"Bruce and Floyd have a lot in common," I lie through my teeth.

"Yes, they're both very good at polo," Genevieve recalls, "Although I'm afraid Floyd won't be able to run in such wealthy circles anymore. He's destitute. Destitute and homeless!"

"Bruce would probably be willing to help with that. He does own a hotel," I point out.

_ Bruce 12:32pm: I'm sure you'll find a clever way of saying 'I told you so' in response to me letting you down again._

"I can't imagine my son living a place as impersonal as a hotel," Genevieve scoffs.

"How about a tent?" I ask.

_ Bruce 12:23pm: Though I would prefer happier, more forgiving sentiments._

"A tent? Are you joking?" Genevieve straightens as if slapped.

"Yes," I say quickly, "A hotel suits Floyd perfectly. Bruce can arrange everything."

_ Bruce 12:18pm: Please respond. Even an 'I hate you' would do._

"Bruce Wayne," Genevieve muses, "He's not as awful as all those tabloids make him out to be, is he?"

"No," I agree, "He's not so bad."

_ Bruce 12:01pm: Lyn, I apologize. I know I reneged on my promise to not stand you up._

With a smile of anticipation I open the last message, already knowing the gist.  
_ Bruce 11:02am: I need to cancel our lunch date. Floyd turned up in my office claiming his father disinherited him. I agreed to take him to a bar so he can drown his sorrows. With luck alcohol will loosen his tongue._

"What are you smiling about?" Genevieve asks, flustered, "Floyd's disinheritance is no laughing matter!"

"I know, I'm sorry," I make amends, reasserting control over my facial muscles, "I truly wish there was more I could do for you, Genevieve."

I slide open my phone and type out my very first text message. The typing is slow going because my long fingernails slide around on the tiny keyboard and make it impossible to hit a single key at once. Thus, without a lot of backspacing my message would have gone something like: "Ik dxoln'{ltg yhastrwe hyoluj". Good thing the cell phone has an easily accessible delete key or Bruce would be even more confused. I send the text off.

_Lyn 3:30pm: I don't hate you._

I secretly can't wait to read Bruce's response. Thankfully, I don't have to wait very long. He types fast. Pretty soon I'm so engrossed in our speechless conversation that Genevieve's prattling about Floyd fades to a distant twitter. Occasionally I nod or hum in agreement and she continues to talk. If anything seems interesting, I focus in, but otherwise I'm too busy double clicking and backspacing.

_Bruce Wayne and Lynnet Pearl Messages: 3:43pm_

_Bruce: You finally read the messages._

_Lynnet: Gen showed me. Type slow. Sorry._

_ Bruce: It gets easier. Do you mean Genevieve Lawton?_

_ Lynnet: Yes. Misses son._

_ Bruce: You sound more drunk than I am supposed to be. At this point I don't think Floyd even notices I'm using my phone. I hope you had better luck getting information out of Genevieve._

_ Lynnet: Don't drink. Gen says Floyd broke. Also has no phone or place to stay._

_ Bruce: I'm not surprised considering how readily Floyd accepted my offer to pay for the drinks. I also offered Floyd a suite in my hotel and he accepted. I'll probably drop him off there before I go to Teresa's camp._

_ Lynnet: Don't arrive in Lamburlini_

_ Bruce: Lamborghini_

_ Lynnet: Bless you_

_ Bruce: Amazing how you make me smile even without using your usual gratuitously verbose sentences. I miss the loquacious Lyn._

_ Lynnet: Normal typing too hard (concise). ikefr ik tfrhypoer jnokrfkmaslklkuy yuioweiollk njort hbwe sanblkwe rtio iunmsdersdrtazjndc kmer (verbose). You use bigger words in text. Interesting._

_ Bruce: Sometimes. And bring back concise since I can't understand verbose. I crave conversation. Floyd chose serenading the women next to us at the bar over talking with me._

_ Lynnet: What song?_

_ Bruce: No idea. I don't pay attention to pop culture._

_ Lynnet: Gen showed me T9. This makes typing so much easier! Can Lawton sing well? If not you might want to rescue the women from him._

_ Bruce: You sound more like yourself now. And no, Floyd's voice puts me in mind of a chicken._

_ Lynnet: It was too hard to be clever with short sentences. I needed to solve the problem somehow. Do you really enjoy my witty remarks? Also, go play hero and duck tape Lawton's mouth shut._

_ Bruce: I'm not in costume so am off duty. Therefore, no hero work. Plus without the utility belt I don't have any duck tape. Besides, his attempt at wooing offers me a break from pretending to drink. I never want to taste whatever juice this is ever again. Also, don't fish for compliments. _

_ Lynnet: You are in costume. My theory is that the real Bruce Wayne enjoys rugged jeans, Hawaiian T-shirts, and brown leather jackets. In addition, you keep duck tape in the belt?_

_ Bruce: I've never worn a Hawaiian T-shirt in my life. Furthermore, duck tape is astonishingly useful during certain unconventional circumstances._

_ Lynnet: The duck tape quote could be awkward in so many different contexts. Is that a yes to the jeans and leather?_

_ Bruce: You understood what I meant about the duck tape. And perhaps._

_ Lynnet: Oh come on, you know you look sexy in jeans and leather._

_ Bruce: Do I?_

_ Lynnet: Now who's fishing?_

_ Bruce : Touché. I hypothesize the real Lynnet Pearl secretly yearns for short, sequin studded dresses._

_ Lynnet: I hate sequins._

_ Bruce: I know. Truthfully I'd guess some kind of flowing green lace. Yet still a short dress since I'm sure you're aware of how well high hems show off your legs._

_ Lynnet: Add in that leather jacket you gave me to match yours and I'll agree._

_ Bruce: I think we need to ditch our respective drinking partners and go on a motorcycle ride._

_ Lynnet: Can't. Genevieve is taking me to the bank so she can withdraw money for her precious Floyd. If I give you the money will you pass it along to him?_

_ Bruce: No I might pocket it. I'm running low on cash lately. Bar tabs._

_ Lynnet: .ha. (sarcastic). I'm giving you the money because I'm not getting within ten feet of Lawton. I don't need to hear the crooning of a dying chicken. _

_ Bruce: More tortured than dying chicken, but your sentiments are completely understandable. I suspect Floyd Lawton is as much a persona as Bruce Wayne. His mannerisms occasionally change abruptly as if he's slipping._

_ Lynnet: Takes one to know one. The persona thing, not the tortured chicken. I always knew when you were faking. But are you sure Lawton's idiocy is an act? Seems sincere to me._

_ Bruce: What gave me away? I try to catch myself when I accidentally drop character. And I believe Lawton sincerely doesn't think he's acting. He reminds me of an overzealous knight from the Middle Ages who persistently tries to live up to the ideal of knighthood. The kind of perfection that can never be achieved and dooms anyone who attempts to failure. He's hiding a darker, untamed side of himself._

_ Lynnet: You learned all this over the course of a couple hours after getting him drunk? As for how I could tell when you were in character: intuition. Ha. Honestly, I guess you looked at me differently. And you were less alive. The expressiveness of your eyes died out. _

_ Bruce: I've been observing Floyd prior to today. I can be clever too, you know._

_ Lynnet: I know. That's why you're so much fun. Though the cleverness never disappeared under the mask, and instead became more disdainful than genial._

_ Bruce: I'm sorry if I was ever disdainful towards you._

_ Lynnet: No, you never directed your scorn at me._

_ Bruce: I'm simultaneously concerned and pleased by that fact._

_ Lynnet: You know how sometimes you drink too much water without noticing it when the waiter keeps refilling your glass?_

_ Bruce: Yes. Happens surprisingly often to me. Waiters constantly request to refill my glass._

_ Lynnet: Probably showing their appreciation of the 30% tips you always leave. Anyway, I downed a lot of water while Genevieve was getting tipsy off wine and now we're on our way to the bank and gravity has done its job._

_ Bruce: Thank you for that information._

_ Lynnet: I'm incredibly uncomfortable. I hope there's a bathroom in the bank. If I burst, please write a more exciting obituary in the Archives than death by bladder overload. Maybe Feely and explosions could be involved._

_ Bruce: Don't joke about Feely and explosions._

_ Lynnet: Sorry. Must be the pee pain talking._

_ Bruce: Was that description necessary?_

_ Lynnet: I'm envisioning you giving me your sarcastic look with your head tilted down, eyebrows raised, sensuous eyes, and mouth in a half smile. So yes, my comment was necessary for that mental image._

_ Bruce: I glanced at the wall mirror behind the bar after reading your text. You know me too well. Though my eyes are brown, not sensuous._

_ Lynnet: Finally a bathroom! Oh sweet relief!_

_ Bruce: Please tell me you're not texting in the bathroom. Did Genevieve not explain texting etiquette?_

_ Lynnet: I washed my hands after. They smell like lavender. And yes, I'm texting in the bathroom. If you get a break from Lawton thanks to singing, then I'm entitled to a break from Genevieve thanks to a pressing need to urinate_

_ Bruce: Your hair always smells of lavender. Glad to hear Genevieve is as trying as her son. I don't feel so alone in my misery._

_ Lynnet: I have all natural lavender shampoo. And Genevieve usually provides better company but right now she's extremely upset over Floyd's disinheritance. If I hear 'my poor baby' one more time I'll scream. Interestingly however, despite her complaining being nearly constant, she hasn't elaborated on why he was thrown out._

_ Lynnet: I think I'm psychic. Someone just screamed. And speaking of explosions, I heard one a second ago._

_ Bruce: In the bank? Must be Feely. Be careful. I'll be there as soon as I invent an excuse to leave._

_ Lynnet: Don't do anything too stupid._

_ Bruce: Likewise._

_End of messages: 6:07pm_

Emerging from the conversation feels as if I've suddenly returned to reality after living in a world comprised entirely of Bruce and I. Unfortunately, reality contains a lot more people, as evidenced by the various screams and cries coming from outside the bathroom door. Faint echoes follow the noises, telling me the action is happening in the main lobby instead of the hallway. I inch open the door, step out, and carefully shut it behind me. Creeping towards the corner of the hall, around which I can hear men yelling at people to sit down and shut up, I assess the situation. I can run in, fake hysteria, and get as close to Genevieve as possible before they tell me to sit. Or I can turn the corner with my hands up and let them force me down once they notice me. My likelihood of survival is higher with the second option, and I suspect Bruce would want me to pick it based on that.

So, I straighten my shoulders, and casually turn the corner. I fake surprise and fast walk towards Genevieve. I'm nearly there when a man with a clown mask spots me and cuts me off. He draws a grenade from his dirty blue suit and advances on me. I immediately raise my hands to my shoulders.

"I was in the bathroom," I stutter in fake terror, "I didn't realize."

He says nothing. Yet his silence exudes an unrelenting power and freezes me in place. With calm, casual confidence he grabs my hand. Using a crude movement reminiscent of the techniques Teresa showed me earlier, he twists my arm around and pushes me to the ground. Before letting go and turning away, he thrusts the grenade into my hands and pulls out the pin. I cling for dear life. The man disappears into the bank vault. I survey the room. About half the hostages hold grenades, and only one has collapsed, whether in a faint or worse. The two burly men left alone in the lobby wave guns around and act intimidating, but pay no attention to me in the very corner of the room. Slowly and smoothly I slide myself over to Genevieve. One of the few without grenades, she clutches her chest and breathes heavily, staring at me with wide eyes.

"My heart," she whispers, "I can't take this. I can't take this anymore."

She closes her eyes and collapses back against the counter wall. The movement draws the attention of the nearest thug wearing a clown mask with a tuft of blue hair sticking out. He turns his gun toward us.

"No moving," blue haired clown yells, lumbering over. He appraises Genevieve's rich clothes and designer handbag. After throwing a glance back at his inattentive partner, he snatches the handbag and stuffs it in his coat. Genevieve reacts hysterically. She throws herself at the thug, screaming.

"No!" I yell, helpless with the explosive wedged between my hands. The thief merely laughs, swatting Genevieve back down. The older woman sprawls onto the marble floor. She sobs and curls into a ball as if preparing for a further attack.

"Genevieve?" I ask hesitantly, "Are you okay?"

"George, no more," she whispers hoarsely, "Please, no more."

"It's Lynnet," I whisper soothingly, "Everything will be okay. The police will be here soon. In the bank. They'll take care of everything."

At the sound of my name she looks at me, the momentary insane terror etched in her face starts to disappear. Whatever dark places her mind dragged her to in that brief instant of fear, her sanity resurfaces and she recognizes me.

"Lyn?" she asks and glances around. She spots the man with the bulging jacket, "My journal," she pleads desperately, "I carry it everywhere. I don't care about the money, but my journal.…if someone read…" her voice breaks on the last word, uttered in a deathly frightened tone. The underlying sorrow in her voice wrenches me back to the day I watched my precious sketchbooks, representing six years of work and my last connection to my father, burn.

"Take this and hold on," I inform her, gingerly transferring the grenade to her hands. I assess my chances of taking on the thief. Staying calm, I carefully track the movements of the other men in the outfit as they drag duffle bags of money out of the vault. The second thug without the hair follows the man in the blue suit back into the vault to help. My chance to act comes but simultaneously the distant sound of a siren pierces the air. I catch myself before I jump to attack.

"Thank god," Genevieve sighs with relief, "The police."

Surprisingly the thieves fail to react and continue to move the bags. The man in the blue suit leisurely exit's the vault, a single bag slung across his shoulder. The blue haired clown counts the bags and asks, "Last one? Where are the other guys?"

The man in the blue suit turns his head towards the first man, lazily raises his gun arm, and shoots. The man collapses to the ground, his jacket falls open and Genevieve's bag rolls away. The sudden appearance of a woman's handbag in a thief's jacket goes unnoticed by the remaining man. The man, presumably the only one left alive, stands in front of the glass double doors, waiting for a sign. The sirens grow louder.

I take the chance and crawl towards the fallen man. First I check his pulse and am saddened to discover the gunshot killed him instantly. I grab Genevieve's bag and silently slide it across the floor to her. She gathers it into her arms and sticks it behind her back. I crouch behind a teller booth and wait for the sirens. The screeching comes closer and closer until finally a fire truck parks in front of the building. Confused, I stare in shock as a single fireman jogs into the building and starts lugging duffle bags of cash out to the waiting truck. The man in the blue suit watches, stalking around the circle of money bags like a vulture.

"Last one, let's go," the thief dressed as a fireman announces, hefting the final bag onto his shoulder.

Overwhelmed by dread, I know what comes next. Unthinking, I fly out of my hiding place and fling my arms around the man in the blue suit, twisting the gun out of his hands seconds before he shoots the 'fireman' in the head. The gun drops to the floor and I kick it as far away as possible. Stunned, the 'fireman' jerks backward, drops the bag, and runs for the exit. The man I'm grappling against spins around and aims a sloppy front kick towards my midsection. I anticipate the attack before it happens, letting go of the clown thief hastily. His boot misses me by inches, but a hidden blade embedded in the toe grazes my side. I double over in pain and drop to the ground. Somewhere in the room a hostage yells and aims the clown's lost gun threateningly. The clown briefly contemplates his chances and flees. A shot echoes outside. The fire truck engine starts and drives off, siren still blaring. Most of the hostages immediately rise and try to aid the ones trapped in a death grip. Genevieve runs over to me.

"Lyn, that was either the stupidest or the most selfless act I've ever seen," she gushes breathlessly. She hands me a damp handkerchief and calls 911 with one hand.

"Stupidest," I confirm, attempting to apply pressure to my side with the snot rag while hoping an ambulance arrives soon.

"You're awfully brave," the man who picked up the gun says, "Foolhardy with a death wish, perhaps, but brave," he grins, "And lucky. I'm surprised the thief fell for my bluff. I'm a lawyer; I've never used a gun in my life! I was shaking so bad that if I actually needed to shoot, I probably would have had as much a chance of hitting you as the guy. Good thing my half-baked plan worked though or you might have joined this unlucky fellow on the ground." he gestures to the dead thief who tried to steal Genevieve's journal.

I nod, "Thank you…?"

"Coleman," he says, "Coleman Reese."

"Thank you Coleman," I reply gratefully.

He nods in return and awkwardly puts an arm around my shoulder to help support me. I humor him and allow him to sit next to me while waiting for the paramedics. In reality, the surface scratch along my side, while initially excruciatingly painful, doesn't worry my too much. What does concern me is the lengths Bruce will go to contrive an excuse to get away from Floyd and appear as Batman to rescue me. With my free hand I pull out my cell phone and dial Bruce's number.

"Hello?" a strange man's voice replies.

"Hello. Who is this?" I ask in confusion.

"I'm the manager at Gotham Grand," he explains in an irritated tone, "Who is this?"

"Bruce Wayne's girlfriend," I say, forcing an insulted tone into my voice, "I insist on speaking to him immediately." Beside me Coleman stiffens and looks uncomfortable, probably realizing he has his arm around a local celebrity's significant other.

"I'm afraid you won't understand him, miss," the manager says scornfully.

"What do you mean?" I ask, dreading the answer.

"I mean, your boyfriend and his friend are too drunk to know what they're saying. And that Lawton fellow is starting to bother customers," his voice leaves the phone for a minute and yells, "Get him away from that plant!"

"Our restaurant and bar is an upscale establishment," he continues to tell me; "We do not permit public drunkenness if the perpetrator proves disruptive to other guests."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand…" I start to protest.

"I have two men here incapable of getting themselves home, but I'm kicking them out. Perhaps you could arrange to pick them up."

"Do you realize whose phone you're holding?" I ask incredulously.

"No idea," the man answers haughtily, "Nor do I care. Drunks are drunks. Be here in twenty or I dump them in the side alley."

"Fine," I agree brusquely and snap the phone shut.

"Er…" Coleman says quietly.

"My boyfriend had too much to drink again," I say miserably, slipping my phone back into my pocket. And now I have no way of contacting him to let him know the danger passed.

"Does he do this often?" Coleman asks.

"Very," I say coldly. My pocket vibrates.

"Well, I could accompany you to the hospital," Coleman's eyes widen hopefully, "Since he is unable to at the moment."

"Actually, could you put pressure on my side right here so I can check my text messages? I think someone else might be worried about me," I say and guide his hand to the cut. Coleman's eyes continue to widen as if he has never stopped a wound from bleeding before. Moving as little as possible, I check my messages.

_Bruce 6:16pm: I'm stuck here. I keep acting unruly but the bar tender, too fond of my bottomless wallet, keeps making excuses. On the other hand, the manager finally seems to be caving._

_ Lyn: That was your grand plan? To act brutish and get booted out?_

_ Bruce: Then start a fight with Lawton, knock him out, and speed to the bunker. I even intended to run red lights._

_ Lyn: You do that every time you drive. I'm safe by the way._

_ Bruce: I knew you could handle yourself. Did you see which direction the thieves left in?_

_ Lyn: West. In a fire truck wearing a clown mask. Have you left yet?"_

_ Bruce: Still waiting for the boot._

I shake my head in exasperation and shut the phone. A couple minutes later I'm sitting in an ambulance as a medic tends my cut. Genevieve stands next to me, hugging her bag protectively and patting my shoulder.

"You again," Ana Ramirez strides up, smiling proudly, "This time wounded in action."

"Hi," I say, "I feel much better. It wasn't a deep cut at all."

"Good," she says, "Care to explain?"

I brief her on the events in the bank, corroborated by comments from Genevieve, and Ana takes notes.

"So, another unlucky coincidence," Ana surmises.

"I'll try to minimize the coincidences by never going to the bathroom in a downtown bank again," I promise.

She laughs.

The medic finishes wrapping the bandages and pronounces me okay to leave. With motorcycle rides strictly out of the question thanks to the injury, I beg a ride from Genevieve. After all, I have an irresponsible, fake drunk boyfriend to pick up.

Genevieve and I arrive in time to watch two dark shapes stagger out of the side door to the Gotham Grand.

"I can't stay," Genevieve says miserably, "If George even knew I got within shouting distance of Floyd…"  
"It's okay Genevieve," I tell her comfortingly, "Go home and rest, I'll call Alfred to pick the three of us up."

I step out of the car and rush forward to catch Bruce before he tips into a dumpster.

"Hen," Bruce slurs with a lopsided smile. He hangs limply in my arms. For someone who was sending me perfectly coherent text messages minutes ago, he acts a very convincing drunk.

"Steady," I say, wrapping an arm around him and trying to force him to stand on his own two feet. Attempting to prop him up reminds me of trying to hold a squirming cat.

"Hey Lynnet," Floyd spats, drawing out each syllable of my name. Not having a girlfriend to support him he leans half collapsed against a doorway.

"Hi," I say curtly, focused entirely on Bruce.

"Glad you here," Bruce says sloppily and pitches forward into me, his hair falling in front of his face.

"We should get you home," I tell him while steering him towards the street.

"Did you have to add drunkenness to your list of public vices?" I complain under my breath.

"Floyd remained resiliently silent on any important issues," Bruce whispers back, his close proximity and hair covering our brief exchange from Floyd's view, "It was frustrating."

"Glad to know you're not truly smashed and can form coherent sentences," I retort.

He shoots me a sarcastic glance.

"Whisper whisper," Floyd taunts and sways on his feet, "Lyn whispered with me too, you know."

Bruce's floppy puppet clumsiness turns to solid rock. He straightens up while still weaving slightly, and glares a challenge at Floyd.

"Bruce, what are you doing?" I ask loudly, trying to put a deeper question underneath the superficial one.

He takes a step towards Floyd, his body language clearly stating his intentions.

"No," I say firmly, putting myself between the two men, "Don't be stupid."

"Your woman's right, Bruce," Floyd drawls, "Better get her home. Before she snaps at another chance to sink her claws into the next billionaire that comes along."

I drop my grip on Bruce, swivel around, and throw a flawlessly executed punch straight into Floyd's face. Floyd reels backward, nearly spinning. I may have broken his nose. My hand certainly hurt enough for my efforts.

"Bruce, you're going to let Lyn defend her own honor?" Floyd sneers and steps forward again. I didn't break his nose. I barely left a dent on his cheek, unfortunately.

Floyd catches himself on the wall and pushes off to lunge at me. Bruce surges up from the ground where he 'fell' after I let go of him and intercepts Floyd's attack. I stagger backwards to avoid the wildly swinging arms. Fake drunk Bruce fights almost worse than I did when he first started giving me lessons.

"What's going on back here?" A voice calls out and a couple appears at the entrance to the alley.

"Nothing," I start to say, waving them on in embarrassment.

The two ignore me completely, inching forward out of curiosity. Before I can react a third, fourth, fifth, sixth person arrives. Eventually I lose count and a crowd quickly surrounds the men brawling in the dirt.

"Go get a camera!" an anonymous voice calls out, "That's Bruce Wayne and Floyd Lawton!"

No one notices me except to elbow me out of the way to get a better view. At the edge and unable to see the fight, I dig through my bag to find my cell phone and call Alfred.

"I need help," I say desperately, "I underestimated Bruce's stubbornness again."

"Already on my way," Alfred says dryly.

At some point Floyd must have got the upper hand because when I next push through the noisy spectators Bruce tumbles into the pile of cardboard boxes stacked against the brick wall. He doesn't get up.

"I don't need your charity," Floyd hisses down at Bruce, wiping blood from his mouth while leering at me, "Or your girlfriend." Having successfully proven his masculinity, Floyd saunters unsteadily through the crowd and hails a passing taxi. Realizing the show is over, the onlookers gradually disappear, leaving Bruce and I alone. I crouch down in front of him and blot a cut over Bruce's eye with one of Genevieve's used handkerchiefs. He opens his eyes to watch me with a humorous expression.

"Idiot," I say bluntly.

"No need to hide the black eye anymore," he responds with a pained grin.

"Still an idiot," I retort and help him stand up.

"It was kind of fun," he says, pretending to limp as we walk away, "A new experience for me."

"Fighting?" I ask, "Hardly."

"Losing," Bruce corrects.

I laugh despite myself, "Intentionally losing doesn't count."

"Who said it was intentional?"

"You fought atrociously. Of course the loss was intentional."

"I would never lose a battle over you intentionally," he mocks with a wounded expression.

"Oh please," I roll my eyes, "As if that fight was about me. And I can defend my own honor."

"I noticed," Bruce says.

At the end of the alley Alfred patiently waits by the limo. His eyes flick to Bruce's rumpled clothes, his bleeding nose, and finally to me. His questioning gaze silently judges us with amused fondness.

"He gallantly protected my reputation," I explain wryly.

"Ah," Alfred cheerily replies and opens the limo door, "Where to?"

"How about our lusciously appointed accommodations for tonight?" I suggest.

In the tent, Bruce stretches out on a sleeping bag as I tend to his pointless new wounds.

"Couldn't you have picked a better excuse for the black eye?" I ask Bruce as I clean pebbles and dirt from an open scrape on his knee, "Our photos will make the front cover of every tabloid tomorrow morning: Bruce Wayne and Floyd Lawton in a fist fight over a woman."

"Exactly," Bruce says, smiling apologetically, "No shadow of doubt where the black eye came from"

"Next time win. The last thing you need is more bruises and sore muscles."

"Always useful to reiterate Bruce Wayne's inability to fight," He shifts an ice pack onto another part of his face and grimaces, "I think Floyd was trying to break my nose. He kept aiming for my head."

"Probably trying to destroy your good looks," I joke, "You were lucky it was night. The foundation wore off almost completely. Anyone would have noticed the dark bruise, even a thoroughly sloshed Floyd Lawton."

"At least makeup is no longer necessary," he observes.

"I don't know," I say, tilting his face up towards mine and pretending to seriously study every angle, "You could use a little eye shadow, and maybe a bit of blush to counteract the late nights. Mary and I are no longer on speaking terms, but I'm sure she'd be willing to give you advice."

Bruce chuckles, hands me the ice pack to free his hands, and pushes himself up from the sleeping bag. He stretches.

"Soon," I continue, "thanks to the tabloids, instead of worrying about covering your secret identity with makeup, you'll have to face the shame of the entire city knowing you lost a barroom brawl against your girlfriend's rumored lover."

"Yet I still have the girl," he points out mockingly.

"I have low standards."

"Precisely what reporters wrote about me when I first started dating you," Bruce counters

"An ideal match."

Grinning, he pockets the motorcycle keys and picks up a clean shirt to change into.

"Are you going out again tonight?" I ask in surprise.

"I need to catch the bank robber," he explains defensively, "His thefts can potentially interfere with Gordon's plans for the mob's money launderers. And I have a lead on Feely, the thief's partner."

"Feely definitely is capable of rigging those explosions," I agree, "What are Gordon's plans?"

"Trust me," he implores, "It's safer if you don't know."

"Okay," I say, standing next to him and measuring his expression, "I need to go to the narrows tonight anyway."

"The narrows? Why?" Bruce asks, immediately concerned, "Wasn't the bank robbery enough excitement for today?"

"It's Thursday," I remind him with a snort, "Plus, I'll be gathering information."

"Maroni's meeting times for Feely?"

"And other things," I say guardedly, "Just trust me."

He nods, his mouth in a firm line but his eyes understanding.

"Stay safe," he says.

"Likewise," I tell him.

A contemplative silence. Well, perhaps contemplative for him. I force myself to empty my mind of our mutual unspoken worries and immediately images from earlier this morning fill the void. The images are certain to make me blush again if I don't change the subject soon.

"Anyway, I can take care of myself now," I announce lightly.

Bruce raises his eyebrows and smirks, "Can you?"

"Teresa taught me a few tricks," I explain proudly, "Go ahead. Take a swing. I'll show you."

I step back in preparation to use the same moves I tried and failed on the heavy thug Wednesday night. Except with a little something extra.

"Of course you can react if you expect an attack," he says, ignoring my request.

"She didn't help me with my reaction times," I clarify, "Though those do need work. No, she showed me ways a weaker person can bring down someone bigger and stronger in a fist fight."

"Techniques I don't know?" Bruce asks curiously and sets down the shirt again.

"You would never need them," I stress, "I'd give anything to have your size and strength, but reality is I don't and never will. To stay safe I'm compelled to bend the rules a bit."

Bruce judges me intently for a minute and then throws a punch at my chest. He clearly recognizes my initial block and elbow thrust. However, instead of stepping behind him to knock him out or sweep him using sheer force, I immediately twist his arm and secure his hand in a thumb lock against my hip. Bruce's reaction to the pain is instinctual, automatically going down on his hands and knees. I knock him onto his back and pin him down.

"See?" I ask, my face hovering inches above his. I relax my hold on him slightly, but am reluctant to let him go.

"That would never have been successful if I hadn't been beaten up twenty minutes ago," Bruce argues and the trademark arrogant smirk appears on his face, "I work through pain. And your move was unexpected, giving you the advantage."

"Didn't you mention something about being able to react without knowing in advance?" I counter.

"I did," he responds ambiguously. Before I can let out a single gloating giggle over beating him for once, he deftly flips me over and traps me underneath his body. I squirm half-heartedly but I know with his greater weight I can't shake him off, nor am I particularly inclined to.

"That doesn't count," I complain with a playful smile, "I already won our tussle. I didn't expect you to continue it."

"It counts," Bruce insists. He leans in closer and kisses me. I wrap my arms around his neck, continue the kiss to distract him, brace my feet, and roll us over. Sitting straddled across his stomach, I chuckle at his shock and pin him to the ground for a second time.

"Does that count?" I challenge him.

"You win," he concedes, obviously not caring about our practice fight anymore, and pulls me down into another kiss. My hair falls forward, covering both of our faces. He brushes a strand out of his eye and tucks it behind my ear.

"Lavender," he observes with a teasing smirk.

I gather my hair and drape the mass over one shoulder to prevent further bushy distractions. Stretching out on his chest, I rest my chin on my hands and reply, "At least I don't smell like the aftermath of a college party."

"One of the many trials of being Bruce Wayne," he laments.

"And I don't look like I walked into a pole headfirst."

"Walked into a pole," Bruce repeats musingly, "Why didn't we think of that excuse before?"

"I suppose if Bruce Wayne is incompetent enough to lose a fight, he is incompetent enough to walk into a pole," I agree. I push myself forward slightly so our faces are inches apart.

"I suppose if Lynnet Pearl is not competent enough to get out of a funhouse on her own, she is also incompetent enough to walk into a pole," Bruce says, the multimillion dollar smile returning to his face.

"That jest is unfair," I protest, "I actually might walk into a pole. The likelihood of you truly losing a fight is miniscule."

"It could happen," he comments seriously.

"Which is why you have me to patch you up," I assure him, leaning in even closer.

Our lips meet. And, for quite some time, neither of us attempt to move again.

Unfortunately, the oblivious mental state of kissing causes problems as usual.

"Lyn, are you free?" Teresa's voice from outside the tent briefly warns us before she appears from behind the canvas flap.

I hastily slide off Bruce as he sits up and reaches for his shirt. Teresa silently raises an eyebrow at us and her amused expression says enough.

"I think we might need to find the two of you a piece of wood," she comments wryly after an awkward moment during which Bruce slips on the shirt and I pat down my hair self-consciously, "Bob came up with the idea. He 'dumpster-dives' for scraps of doors or old furniture and we hang them in front of the tents to knock on. For privacy, you know."

"Definitely sounds like Bob's typical brainstorm," I remark casually to disperse the awkwardness.

"Genius yet stupidly obvious, yes," Teresa agrees.

"You wanted me for something?" I ask.

"I was hoping I could count on your support during an interview tomorrow morning," she says, "But if you're busy at that time…"

"No not particularly busy," I say hastily, "What is the interview for?"

"A dual interview for _Gotham Tonight_ with Ron Marshall," Teresa says with a scowl, "I need someone to restrain me if I go for his eyes after one too many patronizing remarks."

"I think I could handle that," I laugh.

"Thank you," Teresa gushes in relief, "Usually Jessica watches my difficult interviews, but Mr. Fox currently has her busy making last minute travel arrangements to fly in Mr. Lau and his company's delegates, as well as arranging the usual fancy dinners and entertainment that goes with such business negotiations. Overall: keeping my sister a very busy secretary," she takes a deep breath, "Ron Marshall angers me enough from a distance. I'm worried I'll lose my temper. At least I'm afforded home turf advantage."

"I'll be there," I promise. My stomach rumbles, inspiring an idea to relax Teresa's nerves and give Bruce some alone time with Batman, "What would you say to the best Italian food in Gotham?"

"Let me at it," Teresa responds eagerly, "I've been too distracted by reporters to eat properly. I'm running on energy bars."

"Perfect," I announce, "We'll go to my friend's house for lasagna."

"Well then," Teresa lifts the tent flap, "Shall we?"

"Definitely," I say, "I'll be right out."

"What about your boyfriend?" Teresa asks, glancing over at Bruce.

"Bruce needs to finish a bit of business tonight," I explain.

"So late?" Teresa asks quizzically.

"International business never sleeps," Bruce says, his eyes darting towards me with hidden humor.

"Suit yourself," Teresa shrugs and disappears.

"Will we ever share an intimate moment without someone interrupting?" I whisper to  
Bruce.

"Maybe I should buy the Ferris Wheel after all," Bruce suggests, "Maintain my frivolous reputation."

"Please do," I tell Bruce. I open the tent and add, "I'll meet you back here later," before letting the flap fall behind me.

Under a fuchsia twilight sky, I knock on Sam's door expecting an immediate answer.

"The narrows?" Teresa asks in my ear, "Isn't this a bit dangerous?"

"This is home," I reply.

"When you said you were scared of your neighborhood I didn't think you meant these slums," she says wryly.

I wait impatiently to be let in and ignore her comment. The hallway remains suspiciously quiet, absent of the usual dinner preparation clangs. Concerned, I try Lawrence's apartment one floor above. The door opens a crack, stopped by the chain. An eye peaks out at me.

"Lyn!" Joan exclaims, slamming the door shut, clicking the chain and throwing the door wide, "Come in."

"What's going on?" I ask apprehensively.

"Maroni dines with someone he needs to impress tonight. Sam and Lawrence are on duty at the restaurant," Joan explains.

"Well," I say, "I guess we'll have to go to them instead. This is Teresa by the way."

"Hi," Joan shakes Teresa's hand.

"Teresa, can you wait here for a minute?" I ask, "I need to stop by my old room before we leave."

"Sure," Teresa says lightly, naturally comfortable anywhere despite her misgivings about my neighborhood. I leave the two women discussing how to improve the situation in the narrows and hop up the stairs to the attic. Before I reach the final flight of stairs, a faint crash sounds above me and the railing I'm clinging to jitters. Letting go of the rail I start to run, taking the steps two at a time. At the top I deftly turn the key in the lock and barge through the door, determined to confront the intruder. My brain has space for only one thought: no one steals my father's possessions.

I peer half-blindly through a settling smoke of dust and dirt. The haze helps my loud entrance go unnoticed by whoever caused the noise. Belatedly deciding caution would be the best approach, I close the door silently and relock it. I duck behind a wardrobe and curiously watch a shadow gradually rise from the floor. A shaft of yellow streetlight glowing through a man shaped gap in the ceiling outlines pointy bat ears.

"You smashed a hole through my roof!" I accuse, striding out of my hiding place and pointing towards my new skylight.

Batman jerks towards me in shock, "Lyn?" he asks quietly.

"Exactly whose attic were you trying for?" I throw back irritably.

A moan alerts me to another person's presence. Behind me a man with matted black hair staggers to his feet. Batman gently sweeps me out of the way and knocks Feely out again with a deft series of precise jabs. He turns to me, his eyes sweeping the room, swiftly calculating his surroundings.

"Our landing collapsed the shingles because of disrepair," Batman snarls sarcastically. He grabs a stray canvas stretcher and props up the slightly sagging roof.

"Well, if you didn't bring wanted criminals to my home the problem would never have come up," I protest, watching Batman try to temporarily patch the hole using a tall dresser and cardboard box.

Feely groans and rolls over. He pushes himself up, but before he can find his balance I knock him down using a broken lamp someone probably landed on.

"I didn't bring him here, I followed him," Batman argues, crossing the room to glower down into my face.

Feely regains consciousness for a third time, takes one look at Batman and I towering over him, and scrambles backwards. Twisting to his feet, he desperately dashes for the nearest window, a dented jet pack slapping his back as he runs. Batman calmly flips open a throwing star. The star catches Feely's pant leg and embeds in the attic's wooden floorboards. Feely face plants into a bookshelf and crumples to the ground, unconscious yet again.

"You think I had something to do with Feely coming here," I realize sharply.

"Did you?"

"No, I can only contact him through Harley. And I haven't seen her since Crocodilly," I insist furiously. Being on the receiving end of Batman's anger provokes an odd combination of disgust and righteous rage in me.

"You told me to trust you," Batman growls.

"And?"

He gestures wordlessly to Feely. Nearly on cue, Feely stirs. He yanks against his pant leg until the fabric tears, allowing him to stand up. A shadow advances on Feely and corners the trembling explosives expert against the wall. Grinning manically, Feely lifts up a grenade.

"Hello Lyn," he calls out to me while waving the explosive device in a friendly gesture. Batman stops in his tracks, clearly hesitant to incite more damage.

"Hello Jacob," I reply coldly.

"Got my date and time?" he asks eagerly.

"Not yet," I say simply.

"You're awfully slow. Both in that, and other things," he says cryptically, "I thought I'd speed you along."

"You're slow to figure out threatening me does nothing," I counter calmly.

"I'm not threatening you," Feely scoffs, "I'm opening your eyes."

He yanks out the pin, wedges the grenade into a crack in the wall behind him, and leaps out the window. My instinct tells me to try to get rid of the grenade, fast. Thankfully, Batman reacts first, catching me and throwing both of us away from the explosion. I cling to him as the rotting wooden wall splinters into oblivion and showers the attic with bits of debris. Batman rolls over and sits heavily down on the floor. Bruce Wayne emerges from behind the cowl.

"Are you okay?" he asks, examining me worriedly.

"I'm fine," I breathe.

We stare across the attic at the second hole in my home. The hole doesn't reveal the brick of the next row house as expected, but instead opens into another room entirely.

"Did you know…?" Bruce asks.

"No," I cut him off emotionlessly, "But I suspected."

I carefully rise and navigate the creaky floorboards, testing each one as I go. Bruce starts to follow but I hold up a hand, "Please stay in one place. No need to create a third hole tonight. I'm lighter."

I prove my caution worthwhile by nearly falling through a weakened floorboard. Luckily I reflexively shift my weight in time to prevent the inevitable crash into the room below. Over time, my lack of coordination developed swift reflexes to save me from my frequent stumbles. Bruce hovers at the edge of the explosion, watching anxiously. I suppose if I fell he'd throw himself after me.

"Lyn!" Teresa's voice yells, banging on the locked attic door, "What happened? There was a loud thump. Are you alright?"

I freeze in place. Bruce and I make nervous eye contact.

"I knocked a bookshelf over," I call back, "In front of the door. I haven't unstuck it yet."

'Bookshelf?' Bruce mouths with disbelief, 'unstuck it yet?'

"I need to clean up before we leave," I continue to yell to Teresa, "Go back down. I'll be with you in a minute."

"Do you need help?" she asks.

"No, I know precisely where everything belongs," I say with a wince, "I don't want to mess up my organization."

"Okay," Teresa says skeptically, "You and your organization. But I'm getting hungry, so go fast will you?"

"Sure," I say faintly.

Footsteps clatter down the attic stairs and I continue to the hidden room.

"Mess up your organization?" Bruce questions.

"You have no idea the pain Feely's diversion causes me," I say darkly.

Eventually I reach the opening in the wall. Everything in the closet sized room sits underneath a blanket of dust. Stacks and stacks of gray file boxes line an entire wall. To the right rests an electric typewriter on an ornate wooden desk. I recognize the desk as the one that used to grace my father's study. I tiptoe over to the desk and rifle through its contents. Curious, I try my father's old trick of hiding important documents and successfully uncover a false bottom under one of the drawers. Only two people alive know how to open the unique hiding place. Namely, the person who built the desk, and me. Of course, that's assuming the person who built the desk isn't currently in the same place as the third person who knew the secret: buried six feet under.

"Find anything?" a voice asks behind me.

"How did you get across?" I ask Bruce in surprise.

"Followed your footsteps. Luckily, the floor held up," he gives me a rueful smile, "Unlike the roof."

"Still think I had something to do with half destroying my home?" I ask him.

"No," he says softly and starts to open some of the old file boxes.

I concentrate on getting the secret compartment open to prevent thinking about what lies in the boxes. Hopefully Bruce won't study the files closely. The false bottom of the drawer gives way with a click and I pry the wood out. After lifting up two bundles of paper, I find a gun and a packet of bullets. My heart sinks. For some unknown reason Feely seems determined to force me to confront my father's murky past. Sneaking a glance behind me, I tip the gun out and into my messenger bag. After running for so long, I'm uncertain how to face the truth I knew all along.

"What did you find?" Bruce asks.

"Mostly correspondence between my dad and his home town in Italy," I say, shuffling through the top envelopes, "You?"

"Medical records," Bruce replies, handing me a stack.

"I figured," I admit and examine the top page, "My father ran a clinic nearby. The disappearance of the records caused all sorts of problems in Falcone's trial."

"Trial for what?" Bruce asks.

"The murder of my father," I state simply. I glance up at him and dump the patient files back into the box.

He catches my hand, "You never said."

"You never asked."

"Did I need to?"

A pause. I can't look at him.

"It was a long time ago," I say dismissively, "I wasn't even living in Gotham at the time."

Bruce stares down at the stack of files and closes the lid to the box, "Feely knows?"

"He was indirectly involved," I admit.

"And you're willing to work with him?" Bruce furrows his brows in confusion.

"No one really knows more than half-truths and rumors about my father's death," I evade the question.

"The envelope with evidence to convict George Lawton…"

"Might have something to do with the murder. But I never heard anything connecting Lawton to the case, so I'm not honestly certain."

"Why didn't you t-?"

"Don't ask me," I interrupt before he can finish the sentence, "Please don't ask me that."

He moves closer, but I flinch away from his touch. I can't admit my guilty secrets to myself, how could I possibly admit them to him?

"I should go," I say slowly, shoving the bundle of envelopes and papers into my messenger bag, "Can you arrange to have those medical records transferred to archives somehow?"

He nods, watching me with sad eyes.

I shake my hair out of my face and offer him a small smile, "Don't you have a criminal to finish catching anyway?"

"I planned to let him escape after I followed him to his destination," Bruce says, judging my reaction carefully, "Feely remains reckless and obvious in his crimes. Easy to catch. His partner, the 'Joker', not so much. Plus the Joker gunned down four other thieves involved in the bank robbery. Feely only provides the explosives expertise."

"You're using Feely to find the Joker," I conclude, "And you're putting the Joker on top priority because he murdered fellow criminals."

"Thieving does not merit the death penalty," Bruce chides.

"I know," I agree readily, "But most cops wouldn't share your perspective. I'm glad you're out there." I reach up to run my hand across his cheek and through his hair.

"If you want me to go after Feely…" he says, deadly serious.

I laugh humorlessly, "Bruce, if I wanted Feely in jail I would never have agreed to exchange information on Maroni for the dirt on the Lawtons. By all means, exploit Feely's narcissism and nab the Joker. And send the thieving clown to Arkham for Harley. She misses him."

Bruce holds my gaze for a moment, and wordlessly pulls the cowl over his face. I move towards the door.

"See you in our tent," I tell Batman as he climbs onto the window sill. He glances back at me. Red-gold light outlines his dark shape. I turn to unlock the stairway door. The ruffled sound of a cape flapping in the air warns me a second before Batman appears behind me, spins me around, and kisses me. Unspoken emotion finds release.

For my part, I'm gratified to discover there's no awkward nose poking from the mask this time.

I smile up at him, "On second thought, do you want to stay for dinner? Since you lost Feely's trail in an explosion, destroyed a portion of my house, and still owe me for Tuesday night?"

The cowl comes off to award me a full view of his amused expression, "How will we explain my sudden appearance?"

"Intoxicated helicopter driving," I suggest, gesturing to the attic, "Everyone knows, or will soon know, about the drunken brawl earlier. And it would explain the ruined roof."

"What would I wear?" he asks, his eyes daring me to come up with another crazy excuse.

"Actually, that's easy," I say, sidestepping around him, "My dad's old clothes are around here somewhere," I dig through boxes on the non-destroyed half of the attic floor and rifle through the contents of a clothes chest.

"Didn't you tell me recently that you needed a new raggedy hoodie?" I ask, revealing an ancient sweatshirt. Wordlessly Bruce raises his eyebrows at me and starts to disassemble the batsuit.

Minutes later, with the Kevlar suit and cape safely locked away in the attic and Bruce stylishly dressed in ripped jeans and the tattered sweatshirt, the two of us walk with Teresa to the restaurant.

"You know," I start to tell Bruce, "If you continue 'dropping in' like this, we might have to make Thursday nights with Sam and Lawrence a regular date."

Bruce's smile turns into a half grimace as he tries to stifle laughter.

"I'm certainly curious to taste the best Italian food in Gotham," Teresa comments happily, "If my diet consisted entirely of spaghetti, I would be content."

At the restaurant Sam greets us with surprise and pleasure, and promptly readies the best table in the back alley.

"Why are you working the restaurant tonight?" I ask Sam before he returns to the kitchen.

"Maroni's special guest," Sam rolls his eyes, "Arrogant louse, if you ask me. Can't say more than that. Don't worry, the food's as good as ever."

A waiter takes the cook's place next to our table. He notes our order and then the three of us are left alone in the alley with the glow and noise of the kitchen providing ambiance. Bruce takes my left hand in his under the table. Teresa leans back in her chair and studies us.

"How in the world did you two meet?" she asks with a lopsided grin.

Bruce and I exchange sidelong glances.

"And why do you always seem to be sharing some exclusive secret?" she adds, laughing.

"He started at Wayne Enterprises in Applied Sciences, the department below mine," I explain, ignoring her second question.

"She didn't recognize me," Bruce continues. Underneath the table he restlessly draws circles on the palm of my hand with his thumb. The gentle touch sends very distracting yet pleasant sensations down my arm.

"I thought he was still dead," I defend myself with a grin.

"She tried to bury me forever in her filing maze."

"He nearly destroyed the Archives in an explosion."

"She publicly rebuked me at a business dinner."

"He insulted Batboy."

"She continues to refer to the costumed vigilante as 'Batboy'."

"Okay, I get it!" Teresa interjects, shaking her head at us, "If I have more questions about your personal life, I'll bury them."

"I didn't insult Batman," Bruce's eyes mock me affectionately as he takes a sip of his water, "I truthfully stated he has issues."

"If that's true, more Gothamites should have such issues," Teresa comments.

"Indeed, pretty soon we'll have Cougarboy, Flying Squirrelboy, Raccoonboy, Mouseboy, BadgerBoy, Possumboy…" I start listing random nocturnal animals.

"Flying Squirrelboy?" Bruce asks incredulously.

"Owlboy, Skunkboy…knocks out criminals with his unwashed body odor." I continue.

"I meant more people should have a hero complex," Teresa clarifies, "Saving people and not necessarily donning a mask to do so."

"Like you?" I ask, smiling.

"I'm no hero," Teresa protests.

"Dozens of reporters back at the camp would disagree," Bruce says idly.

"Well I'd never wear a mask, that's for certain," Teresa says, "If someone has a problem with me, they can say it to my face. People call me bitchy, domineering, and every bad name laden on a strong minded woman in power, but I can't change who I am so why should I hide it?"

"Sometimes hiding is necessary," I say.

"No, I'll never hide or run away," Teresa disagrees, "Try to ignore me, and I'll be louder. Try to silence me permanently and I'll become a martyr. And strident martyrs are never forgotten."

"That's a rather morbid point of view," I comment uneasily.

"In Gotham, it's realistic," Teresa says, "Besides, die for your cause while making as much noise as possible, and you can't be ignored."

"What if Batman dies for his cause?" Bruce asks curiously.

"Who would know?" Teresa asks, "Other than him and his friends, assuming he has some kind of inner circle. To the average citizen the vigilante would simply disappear and be forgotten. No one would be there to take his place."

Reflexively I squeeze Bruce's hand at the thought of him dying in his battle against Gotham's underworld. Bruce's phone buzzes, interrupting the conversation. He picks it up and concentrates on a message.

"Alfred is here in the limo," Bruce says, standing, "I'm afraid I have to go."

"International business again?" I ask.

"New leads," he says.

"But you just got here," Teresa comments with a grin, "I promise not to bring up death again."

Bruce chuckles and kisses me briefly on the head, "The problem won't wait."

"What about dinner?" I ask.

"Split the food between the two of you," he says, "I'm confident the extra spaghetti will disappear."

I nod and watch him leave through the alley, knowing Batman will probably be risking his life for justice again soon. The food arrives and Teresa and I enjoy our dinner alone, the conversation switching to happier topics.

"So what were you getting in the attic?" Teresa asks curiously halfway through the meal.

"Some of my dad's old letters," I reply. I reach into my bag and dump the bundle at Bruce's empty table setting, "Most are from his home in Italy," I twitch a couple envelopes out of the way and spot an unusual one containing no postmark, "And apparently a local one."

I spread open the odd letter on the table next to my plate. Twisting a load of spaghetti onto my fork, I eat as I read. After the first few sentences I set the fork down. A couple paragraphs later I start to skim. Slowly a clearer version of the events leading up to my father's death starts to form in my mind. The wild signature in another language at the bottom of the letter confirms every claim the writer makes. The Russian mob boss, the man D.S. assassinated last night, sent the letter as a warning to my father. He claimed the rumors that Dan was being framed for hiring Feely to plant a bomb under Falcone's nose were true. According to the Russian's sources, Falcone intended to murder Dan and his accomplices the night after the letter was written. And the person who framed my father, and landed the mod equivalent of a death sentence on Dan's head, was Maroni.

A cold, dead numbness I've felt once before calms me. I set my napkin down on the right side of my plate and stand up.

"Lyn?" Teresa asks, confused.

I ignore her and walk into the kitchen. In my peripheral vision I register Sam and Lawrence repeating my name in similar confusion. Their voices slide off me and I continue towards the swinging door. A waiter enters the kitchen carrying an empty tray. The door swings back and forth, providing glimpses into the dining room beyond. The back of Maroni's head sits directly in my line of sight and across from him, shrewdly sober, relaxes Floyd Lawton. I walk into the dining room, barely noticing when the swinging door bangs into me. The thugs protecting Maroni are concentrated on the front door, not the back. I'm inches away from his table when they finally catch me. Suddenly my numbness disappears as pain shoots through my back and I'm thrown across the table.

"Hey, kid," Maroni greets me with detached amusement.

My bag is searched. The thugs find the gun.

"I recognize this," Maroni comments, running his hand along the metal, "Your father carried it everywhere. When we were kids Carmine used to taunt him because Dan refused to actually use it," he smiles down at me pleasantly, "Were you planning on using it?"

"No," I choke out, "I wasn't planning anything. I wanted to talk."

"So talk," Maroni says, leaning back in his chair and lazily pointing the gun at me.

His goons drag me off the table and force me into a chair.

"You framed my dad," I say.

"That was never proven," Maroni replies.

"I don't care. I want to know why," I say.

Maroni snorts a chuckle and squints his eyes at me, "Wrong place, wrong time," he shrugs, "Bad luck."

"Then he wasn't mafia?"

Maroni raises his eyebrows and leans forward, "Your father, girl, was as deeply entrenched in mob business as I am now. But you knew that already, didn't you?"

I glare at the hateful man in front of my face.

"He told me about that fight of yours," Maroni says, "He accepted his death to give you a choice," he sighs and gestures to the thugs behind me, "Take her out to the docks to deal with her. We don't want any messes," he looks straight at me, "And make it quick, for her father's sake."

The thug, who relies entirely on his massive biceps rather than intellect to gain the upper hand, reaches for me but I twist out of the way. Before either thug can react, the first falls to his knees in pain. After breaking the finger of the second I confront Maroni and find myself staring down a gun.

"Like father, like daughter," Maroni sneers, "Full of surprises. Guess things might get messy."

"Wait," Floyd says quickly, holding up his hands, "Wait. Let her go…" his calculating gaze runs me up and down coldly, "And you can consider the job done."

The gun dips slightly, "What's this chit to you?" Maroni asks, suspicious.

"Nothing," Floyd declares, "But she happens to be dating a friend of mine."

"And you'll do the job to save a friend's woman?" Maroni rests the gun on the table.

"No. I demand the regular fee as well," Floyd says assuredly, taking the gun and slipping it into his pants. With his other hand he grips my upper arm and tows me away from Maroni. To my surprise Maroni takes Floyd's disregard for the standard mob balance of power in stride. Whatever Floyd's job is, Maroni must be desperate.

Floyd kicks the door to the restaurant open and flings me out into the street. He steps out behind me and I turn towards him, clutching my left side still aching from the fight with Maroni's thugs.

"What job?" I ask.

"You're hardly in a position to command answers," Floyd drawls in a haughty manner. His hand and nails dig into the skin of my arm again and he propels me away from the entrance.

"You're not going to explain anything?" I ask, obediently stumbling along next to him in the direction of the docks.

"I imagine you're just as reluctant to explain yourself," Floyd remarks. He eyes me, "Well? Going to tell me everything?"

I maintain a stony silence.

"Thought so," Floyd comments.

"One harmless question," I propose, "Were you drunk at all in the alley earlier?" I attempt to release my side and stretch carefully without Floyd noticing.

"Of course not," Floyd laughs scornfully, "Though your boyfriend made quite a fool out of himself."

"Why did you start that fight?" I ask and pretend to still be hunched over in pain.

"You said one question," Floyd reprimands me, "And if I remember correctly, you were the one to start the fight."

"I don't see any reasoning behind your actions," I say.

"If you haven't figured out the answers yet, I'm not going to make things easier for you," Floyd says bitterly, "You've certainly had enough hints."

"Perhaps I didn't recognize them as hints," I say distractedly, eyeing a potential maze of shipping containers.

"Unsurprising," Floyd says, "Know this: currently I find it worthwhile to keep you alive, but at any point I can easily, and with a clear conscious, send you back to Maroni."

"How can I preserve my useful status if you won't tell me why I'm useful?" I ask. In my mind I plot my escape.

"I don't need you to know the reasons," Floyd says confidently, "You'll help me with the job whether you intend to or not."

With that bit of information, I nearly bolt behind the nearest container, but my cell phone buzzes insistently, drawing Floyd's interest. Underneath his scrutiny I read my text message.

_Bruce 9:24pm: Where are you?_

"Your boyfriend misses you," Floyd leers. He turns away in amusement, leaving me to answer privately.

_Lyn 9:26pm: Docks near S&L's._

After sending the message and snapping the phone shut, I use Floyd's inattention to run. I dash down a row of containers and take a few turns, hoping to lose my unwelcome escort. To my surprise no footsteps follow me. I skid to a stop behind one of the metal boxes and catch my breath to ease the stitch in my side.

Malicious laughter echoes off the corrugated metal. "I'm not going to hurt you Lynnet," Floyd yells, unseen, "That would defeat the entire purpose of saving your neck. I planned on dropping you off at Bruce's penthouse, but I suppose you're free to devise your own method home if you prefer." His chuckles fade out in the opposite direction of my hiding spot.

I collapse to the ground in relief. My entire body already aches and I know I'll be sporting my own collection of bruises tomorrow. I sit in silence, waiting for my brain to sort itself out. The pain makes concentrating on anything else difficult. Questions fill my mind, but I don't know which one to focus on first. Exhaustion overwhelms me. The harsh truths I've been running away from for years are finally catching up to me and becoming unavoidable. One possibility I don't care to consider is what will happen when I can't run anymore.

I take a deep breath and check my messages for Bruce's answer. The breath catches in my throat as his response confirms the suspicions nagging at me since last night.

_Bruce 9:27pm: F.L. is D.S._


	29. Week 4:Friday

A/N: Thank you all for reading and sticking with me and my sporadic updates! Once again I'm beta-less so all errors are entirely mine. Help me edit by reviewing! I especially enjoyed how everyone caught and corrected me on my 'duck' tape mistake last chapter. Thank you! :)

Anyway, hardest chapter to write so far. I knew it was coming, and if you know Gotham Knight you also knew this was coming, but I really really really didn't want to do it.

* * *

28: Friday

I'm in a dingy apartment. The room is too dark to see anything, but I can feel the dirt and dust in my lungs. I shrug a heavy weight off my back and drop it to the floor. The window I used to enter the room slaps open again from the wind. The cheap rolling curtain sucks tight against the frame. A tree scratches at the curtain. A storm's coming. Who knows how long this one will last.

I collapse on the bed. Some unknown homeless man noticed me jetting over rooftops to reach my hideout. The sighting could pose a threat. I would have to admit my failure to _him_. _He_ will not be happy. A new headquarters must be found and readied, the supplies moved, and the outfit informed. No one besides me lasts more than a few days in the outfit anyway. More than enough disposable idiots to go around. Charles Darwin at work. I stretch out and put my feet up. Another good day. I pick up a pad of paper and study a Deterministic Finite State Machine. Unlocking the string taken in by the machine should be simple. I can already feel the problem shifting in the back of my mind. I set the paper down and prepare for sleep to let the answer come to me in dreams. Training the brain to work while sleeping is difficult, but worthwhile in the end.

The curtain rips. Jagged black claws tear the plastic to shreds. A shadow leaps from the window and flies to the bed. I can hear my detached voice scream in terror.

The homeless man. I underestimated the time it takes rumors to spread.

"The envelope," Batman growls menacingly at me. His hand encircles my throat, threatening to cut off my oxygen flow.

"What envelope?" I choke. He knew. How did he know?

"_The_ envelope," Batman repeats, a subtle infliction adding an entire paragraph of wordless threat. I've never seen the Batman angrier. I start to worry he has snapped, and the hand on my throat might actually close.

"In the dresser," I yell, "By the door."

His eyes flick towards the door to confirm my statement. His eyes say a lot more than he does.

"Stay away from Lyn," I whisper, "She's mine. Not yours. Certainly not that brainless clod Bruce Wayne's. Mine."

Batman's eyes focus on me with surprise. Then narrow. The last thing I see is an armored fist.

* * *

My fuzzy, shocked mind jolts to action and reorganizes the pieces of the puzzle. Genevieve's precious son assassinated the Russian mob boss, and planned to kill again. Floyd Lawton used me as an excuse to scope the carnival Wednesday night and his next plan involves me again. I shudder.

"Lyn?" an urgent voice whispers in the distance, "Lyn?"

I open my eyes. I can barely distinguish between the container shapes in the glare of the setting sun.

"Teresa?" I croak desperately. Extreme pain sears my side and I clutch my shirt. My hand comes away drenched in blood. The fight with the thugs had reopened the fresh wound and ripped through the bandage.

"Great," I moan, "The second destroyed shirt today." Feeling delirious, I lie down on my opposite side and apply pressure on the cut.

"Lyn!" Teresa exclaims. She appears from around the corner. Her hand grips a knife in a deadly manner, clearly expecting trouble. Seeing me, worry replaces the alert readiness on her face and she rushes forward, "What happened back there? Your zombie mode in the restaurant was terrifying. I thought you were dead."

"Sorry," I say, "That letter. Maroni murdered my father."

"What?" Teresa stares at me in shock and then sees the blood, "Damn, did Lawton do this?" She undoes her sweatshirt from around her waist and passes it to me.

"No, a clown did it," I say while wrapping the sweatshirt tightly to stop the bleeding, "Originally."

"Even un-zombified, you still make no sense," Teresa says.

"Call Alfred," I say and give her my phone.

"Not an ambulance?" Teresa asks, but starts searching through my contacts for Alfred's number immediately.

"What ambulance would brave the narrows at this time of night?" I ask.

"I always thought the EMTs were the only officials able to safely patrol the narrows at night," Teresa comments as the phone rings.

"There was one, but he worked within the narrows and outside official regulations," I explain.

The phone finally picks up.

"Hello?" I hear Alfred's voice faintly through the phone.

"Hi," Teresa blurts hastily, "Lyn and I need to be picked up at the docks in the narrows. She's badly injured and probably needs a hospital."

"Already here," Alfred says, always one step ahead, "Where is she?"

"Uh…" Teresa glances blankly at the containers surrounding us, unmarked except for elaborate graffiti pieces.

"Three horizontal rows straight west from the sidewalk," I quickly recite my mental map, "take a left at the Hello Kitty with fangs, two columns down take a right at DIAMOND, and then another right underneath the cowboy hat."

Teresa relays the information to Alfred. I lean my head against my arm and close my eyes.

* * *

I wake up in a cloud. Everything hurts. The pain is bearable, but makes movement an unpleasant sensation. I shift very slightly and bury my head deeper into the nearest fluffy pillow. Pillows surround me on every side, encasing me in a comforting, satin mountain. The events of last night seem years ago.

"Good afternoon, Miss Pearl," Alfred's head floats into my limited line of vision.

"Morning," I mumble, "What happened?" I sit up and accept a cup of tea from him.

"You passed out," Alfred says matter-of-fact, "Teresa found you, called Master Wayne, and we came to your rescue." he smiles and nods towards the opposite corner of the room. I glance over and notice Bruce sprawled in a black armchair, his suit askew and tie half undone, fast asleep.

"Thank you," I say, turning back to Alfred and discovering him gone.

Still drowsy, I concentrate on drinking my tea while using the least amount of muscle movement. Judging from my aching, one would think I attempted Bruce's daily exercise routine instead of the brief tussle I got into last night. If I prop my elbows on my stomach, cup my hands carefully around the mug, and use my neck to tilt the tea enough to take a tiny sip, I manage to avoid straining anything. I had no idea thumb muscles could be sore.

"Having trouble?"

All my careful attempts to stave off pain are destroyed as I jerk forward in surprise, spit the tea out, and start to cough. I glare at Bruce out of the corner of my eye.

"Notice you have plenty of extra ammunition, should you feel the need to throw something at me," he continues with a lazy half smile and gestures to the extra pillows, "I made sure of it myself."

"I think throwing a pillow at you would hurt me more than you at the moment," I complain bitterly.

His smile disappears, "Are you alright?" He moves from the chair to the end of the bed.

"Fine," I say bravely, "Just sore." I smile up at him.

"Last night…," he says, "What happened?"

"I could ask you the same thing," I say, calmly sipping my tea and trying to conceal my racing heart.

"I found Feely," Bruce says.

"Master Wayne?" Alfred interrupts, carrying a tray, "I prepared a little breakfast." He settles the tray down across my lap between Bruce and me.

"You found Feely?" I casually draw the subject of conversation away from me.

Bruce inclines his head, "And the envelope. Inside was a business card, among other things."

"A business card?" I ask.

He hands me the card and picks up the glass of orange juice on Alfred's tray.

"Floyd Lawton," I read aloud, "I have one exactly like this. The number is no good now, thanks to his dad."

"But do you recognize the number?" Bruce asks. He sits on the bed and leans across my legs, watching me intently.

"No," I admit, "But numbers always were my memorizing weakness."

"Ron Marshall contacted that number multiple times from his phone," Bruce reveals, "as well as from an encrypted and cryptographic authenticated internet phone

"Okay," I say, "I'll pretend to understand what that last half meant."

"A phone I picked up at the hotel on Wednesday night called the same number. A phone once owned by the new Russian mob boss," Bruce continues.

"You think this new boss ordered a hit on the old one. And Ron Marshall has ordered a hit on…" I can't finish my sentence.

"Teresa, most likely," Bruce says.

"Why?" I ask, "How could an apartment complex be worth murdering someone over? That doesn't make any sense logically."

"Exactly. We need to learn why Marshall is so invested in this," Bruce says, "Hopefully we can find useful information in the archives."

"We?" I ask with a grin.

"I thought I would help you search," he replies.

"The last time I let you go near a filing cabinet you knocked it over," I retort.

"That one was already broken."

"Slightly off balance, not broken."

"Loose hinge."

"Promise not to make a mess?"

"Promise."

"All right then," I agree, "Except," I glance down at the silk pajama shirt I'm wearing, "What did you do with my clothes?"

"Right," Bruce stands up and looks around, "That was Alfred," he lifts a couple pillows as if fresh laundry would be hiding underneath.

"Bruce Wayne, you're turning red," I accuse.

He halts mid-search and leans over me, his face inches from mine, his cool expression very still as if he's having trouble controlling it, "Let me go find Alfred, and ask him where your clothes are." He smiles and walks to the door.

"Most eligible bachelor in Gotham, embarrassed by the thought of a woman undressing," I tease, "Will wonders never cease?"

"It's been awhile," he says.

"Really?" I ask in half disbelief and half surprise.

He turns to look at me, casts his eyes to the ceiling, and shuts the door behind him on his way out.

* * *

I'm initially confident as I stride into Wayne Enterprises with my hand entwined in Bruce's. However, our entrance draws odd, furtive stares from our fellow commuters and my bubble deflates. If my reputation worsens I might end up being labeled with the female equivalent of 'playboy'. Mary's eyes peek above a tabloid and follow us across the lobby. The quote on the cover reads "Sorry Floyd Lawton, you're too blonde to break up Brunet."

"Lyn," she calls out coldly, "A package for Archives." One hand releases her death grip on the tabloid and loftily shoves a large cardboard box across her desk. The tabloid snaps back in front of her face. Hesitantly I walk over, pick up the package, and immediately stagger under the weight. Bruce steps up to catch me and the box before we tip over.

The corner of Mary's tabloid folds back briefly.

"I see you picked the loser," she drawls, sniffing at us disdainfully.

Bruce laughs the unassuming laugh of a man who doesn't recognize an insult when he hears one.

"The number one problem about drinking too much," Bruce jokes lightly, "is you never remember enough to know not to do it again."

The paper corner flicks straight and obscures Mary's reaction. Bruce and I carry the box to the elevator.

"The contents of this box concern me" I comment on the ride down, "Did you order anything for Archives?"

"No," Bruce says, examining the label.

"Maybe Drake then. Mr. Fox was right to warn me about him," I say.

"He's a good kid," Bruce replies, "Lacks direction, but his work in Archives frees your time for more important things." He smiles at me.

"I suppose saving Gotham rates a higher priority than files," I concede.

"I had more entertaining things in mind," Bruce says with mock sincerity.

"Be careful, you might start mixing up your masks," I tease as we get off the elevator.

Drake is mysteriously absent from the front desk. Bruce helps me dump the heavy package on the tabletop and leaves for Applied Sciences.

"I'll send your wayward apprentice in your direction if I see him," he promises before he disappears into the maze.

"Tell him: a lot to learn from the master, the young padewan still has," I reply.

I can hear Bruce's chuckles echoing off the cabinets. Too curious to wait for Drake to return, I flip open a pair of scissors and dig into the tape sealing the box shut. I'm about to dive into the endless layer of packaging peanuts when an ecstatic cry interrupts my concentration.

"It came!" Drake exclaims and brushes me out of the way. He sends Styrofoam flying in his haste to uncover the contents.

"Bruce found you," I observe in amusement.

"Yeah, he said something about Yoda needing me," Drake spares a quick glance at me, "I was a little disappointed when I saw you," he returns to his mystery box and lifts up a black sheet of fabric, "But this is worth the interruption!"

"What is it, exactly?" I ask, unsure if I want the answer or what it might mean for the future of Archives' computer system.

"Nothing work related," Drake says, covering me with the black sheet and digging deeper into the box, "But if my dad found me ordering this I'll never hear the end of it. I'm technically still paying him back for last year's Comic Con costume."

"Comic Con costume?" I stretch out the sheet and realize the shape is more triangle than rectangle.

"Yes," Drake says with relish, pulling out a familiar pointy-eared, black cowl, "What is the point of having a multi-millionaire father if you can't exert that privilege to fund a frivolous cause once a year without his knowledge?"

"You bought a Batman costume," I state in disbelief.

He promptly slips the cowl over his head and smiles back at me, "Of course I bought a Batman costume. I ordered it the minute high resolution reference photos of the vigilante surfaced in the cloud. I'm going to be the first Batman cosplayer to hit the internet. My storm trooper suit was a success last year, so hopefully this will go over twice as well."

He strikes a heroic pose and I ceremoniously drape the black wings over his shoulders.

"Your physique certainly matches the part," I comment, "Though you need to tone down the hero attitude and add more brooding angst."

"True," Drake muses, "Batman is more menacing than gallant. I'll have to practice."

An elevator ping reminds us of our real job.

"Foobar, it's my dad," Drake curses and drags off the cape and cowl. He shoves the costume back into the box and folds over the cardboard lid right before Lucius steps out of the elevator. Drake rests an elbow on the package and both of us contrive a casual posture.

"Drake, Lyn," Lucius inclines his head, a twinkle in his eye, "New shipment?"

"More file folders," I explain automatically, "Can never have too many file folders," I give the giant box a once-over, "Now I'm set for the next decade."

"How very farsighted of you," Lucius says. His eyes flick between Drake and I knowingly and he goes on his way to Applied Sciences.

Drake lets out the breath he had been holding, "My father never fails to give off the impression he knows everything, even your thoughts. Sometimes I worry the impression is reality, but then I recall he remains unaware I successfully hacked into his computer when I was 15 trying to read my Christmas present list, and I feel more secure in my life."

"Take pictures at the comic con and we're even for the lie," I tell him.

"I don't know how I'm going to be able to wait until next July to wear the costume," Drake mourns, "Anyway, want to slack off work and help me assemble the rest of the suit?"

"Sounds diverting," I answer with a smile. We push, drag, and shove the box into a secluded corner of the file maze where we're least likely to be discovered. Drake pours over the instructions and I start unloading each piece.

"Where did you order this?" I ask.

"Custom made from a martial arts armor manufacturer," Drake replies, "I drew up the specs to be as realistic as possible."

"Impressive," I compliment. He reads out a few part names and I locate the pieces for him. As he starts connecting plastic together with various implements, I pull out my sketchbook and start to draw the intensity of his focus on the task at hand. I know better than to attempt to aid in the assembly considering the results of my last project. The embarrassment of that particular leaning tower of canvas and tent poles lingers in the back of my mind.

"Thank you," Drake responds, "As you said, might as well put this great physique to use for something other than bashing heads in football."

I laugh. "I've been wondering," I prompt, "How exactly does a computer geek end up in football?"

"Natural strength and agility," Drake explains as if stating the obvious, "Funnily enough my mother discovered my true calling after my ballet instructor kicked me out for being too aggressive. Dad was devastated."

"Devastated?"

"He thinks I wasted my mind on football. Too many hits to the head. My dad has never danced underneath the floodlights of a stadium, crossed the goal line, and triumphantly held up the winning football to a crowd of screaming fans," he sighs wistfully into a memory, "Plus I know my strength won't last forever. Soon enough I'll be old and feeble, like dear old dad."

"I would hardly call your dad old and feeble," I chide humorously, "So you were a football hero and a computer whiz. Is there anything you can't do? You remind me of a friend who is similarly afflicted with perfection. I bet you were hated in high school by jealous overachievers."

"Bullies in high school called me hateful names behind my back but for reasons other than my talents on the field or in the classroom," Drake says without missing a beat.

"Oh," I stutter, "I'm sorry, I didn't think. I should have known."

"It's okay," Drake chuckles at my discomfort, "I had it comparatively easy. My father's influence and living in a large city tended to offer me a bit more leeway than most."

"Do you miss football?" I ask.

"Definitely," he agrees firmly, "No glory in programming. Unless you amass a billion dollars doing it, but my family already has millions so why bother?"

"Finally, someone who understands my point of view," a voice drawls above us.

Drake and I jump up guiltily. I drop my sketchbook and various pieces of costume fall off his lap.

"Please, continue," he tells Drake, "I need to borrow Lyn though. For lunch."

* * *

"I suspect this will be the last time we call ahead to make reservations," I announce, unfolding my napkin and carefully placing it on my lap. Normally I wouldn't bother, but with three different cameras snapping photos of me through a window on my left, I'm unusually conscious of my lack of proper dining etiquette. Bruce and I are seated at a table on top a raised platform alcove next to a bay window. I scoot my chair closer to the window in an attempt to avoid the perilous edge of the platform. Judging from the atmosphere of the cafe, the platform probably doubles as a stage for open mic nights and slam poetry readings when not being used to display high profile patrons eating lunch. The large pane of glass sucks all the warmth from the room and makes my arm hair stand on end. Both options are unfavorable; chilly goose bumps up my arm, or the potential of a well documented, unflattering tumble from my chair when the leg inches off the stage.

"I requested private dining," Bruce comments, leaning back casually and flicking open the wine list. Despite his comfortable appearance, I can sense his annoyance from the slight tilt of his mouth, "I believe the restaurant is new. Needs some publicity."

"They can take every bit of mine," I say, "Freely. It looks like they need it."

The place is empty apart from us.

Bruce looks up at me from under his eyebrows, gives me a princely smile, and then returns to the menu. I shift in my seat and try to avoid watching the people outside watching me.

"It's severely tempting to make faces out the window," I say with a sigh.

Bruce makes a humming noise that could be taken as assent.

"The photographers still hovering in front of the window probably anticipate another drunken blunder given the amount of time you're spending pouring over that menu," I continue.

Another hum of agreement from the wine list.

I sit staring at the overly pretentious logo for a few minutes before I make another attempt at engaging the cardboard cutout in conversation.

"How nice of you to plan a lunch outing," I remark cheerily.

Dead silence.

"Actually that was a complete lie," I correct myself. I fold my arms on the table and lean forward with an expression mirroring Bruce's typical mock seriousness, "This is utterly boring."

Now a stifled laugh accompanies the murmured agreement but the menu fails to disappear.

"How do normal people survive dates without falling asleep?" I continue.

"Normal people typically sleep eight hours a night. Instead of averaging four," Bruce replies.

"Which we only get if we combine my three with your one," I tease, "Seriously, people sit across from each other every meal and pretend to be interested in what the other has to say. Perhaps, after failing at stimulating conversation, people decide to forgo eating altogether. Or concentrate on the taste of the meal. But what is the point of going out to eat anyway? The meal or the entertainment of good company? Most couples appear completely miserable with each other, forced to take any enjoyment from the food alone."

The wine list lowers just enough to reward me with a glimpse of two sarcastic eyes laughing at me.

"And why do people enjoy talking so much anyway?" I muse, "And if we're looking for someone so much like ourselves, why not just talk to ourselves? One would win every argument, not matter what side one took. And one would always find oneself funny."

The eyes disappear. I sigh in frustration.

"I will not let us become them," I say, "In other words: normal." In one swift movement, I shuffle the elegant single flower vase over to one side of the table, snatch the menu out of Bruce's hands, and plunk it down between us and the window, effectively blocking the reporters from view. A surprised Bruce slips something into his jacket, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He obligingly leans forward and hides behind the wine list with me.

"What were you doing exactly?" I ask, "A wine list cannot possibly be that fascinating to someone who doesn't drink."

"Scoping," Bruce says innocently, his characteristic smirk spreading across his face.

"Scoping out what?"

"Escape routes."

"Other than the door which is less than two feet away?" I ask.

"To the roof."

"Sounds pretty abnormal in comparison to the usual luncheon activity," I postulate.

"You never know when you might need to escape an insane scarecrow intent on kidnapping a billionaire."

"Very true," I agree.

"The waiter seated me on the wrong side of the table," Bruce says quietly. He takes my hand with a gentle caress, "I wanted a clear view of the back room and…"

"Speaking of, here comes our food," I interrupt in a hasty whisper and gracefully pull my hand from Bruce's. I smile at him flirtatiously and the two of us make a show of reluctantly leaning back in our chairs.

"Thank you," I tell the waiter as he presents me with the largest and fanciest chicken salad sandwich I have ever seen.

Once he leaves I assess the potentially hazardous concoction sitting in front of me. When I had ordered the lunch, I hadn't considered the possibility of Gotham city being subjected to a photo of Bruce Wayne's girlfriend dripping chicken salad dressing all over her shirt on page 8. Finally deciding on the cleanest method of eating the sandwich, I pick up my fork and knife.

Bruce grunts in disgust. I glance up from my own meal in time to see him drop the soup spoon back into the bowl, wearing an expression that looks as if he smells something unpleasant.

"Something wrong with the soup?" I ask.

He answers by arrogantly pushing the bowl away from him and pulling out his checkbook.

"It can't be that bad," I insist.

The photographers outside zealously snap photos.

"We're leaving," Bruce says. He drops the check on the table and gets up.

"Okay," I say. A hint of regret seeps into my voice. I was looking forward to that chicken salad, even if it required a fork and knife to eat. The photographers notice we're about to leave and disappear down the street. Bruce quickly glances around to ensure we're alone, takes my hand, and leads me to a back door.

"I thought the escape route talk was merely frivolous banter," I whisper in his ear.

Bruce throws a mocking look over his shoulder that clearly states nothing is frivolous with him.

I smile.

Together we disappear through the door and start climbing the miles of stairs behind it. The stairs are old and metal. Our clanking footsteps echo up and down the stairwell. And we keep going up, and up, and up, and up some more. After the twentieth flight, the adrenaline wears off and my legs start to complain. I slow down a bit. Bruce turns around and notices me falling behind. He grabs my hand again, his eyes promising that my efforts will be rewarded, and pulls me along. As we climb we discard various unnecessary outerwear. Somewhere between the twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth floor Bruce drops his suit jacket. I dump my own jacket on the thirtieth floor and my now slightly sweaty sweater two floors after. By the time we reach the roof both of us are in our undershirts. I'm noticeably more overheated and worn out than Bruce. He holds the roof access door open for me. I step out onto the wooden deck. A cool breeze offers respite from the stifling air in the stairwell. I walk to the end of the deck and lean against the railing three feet from the edge of the roof.

"Not quite there yet," Bruce says with a smile. He pauses to pick the lock on the rusty old gate that separates the wooden deck with the rest of the roof and pushes past the sign warning 'Authorized Personal Only: No Exit'. We crunch across the gravel covered roof toward a smaller brick tower. We clamber up the fire escape and onto the top of the tower. The city spins in a 360 degree view below us. I hover on the ledge, leaning into the breeze. Bruce stands to my right, clearly enjoying my enthusiasm. I take a deep breath and stretch my arms wide in a cliché, yet appropriate, gesture. Bruce chuckles and sits down next to me, dangling his legs over the ledge.

"Do you ever get that urge to leap off and fly?" I ask him.

"I've acted on it," Bruce says with a smile.

"Right," I laugh, "Momentarily forgot who I was talking to."

He nods.

"Unlike you, I can only imagine how flying would feel," I say.

"What do you imagine?"

"Promise not to laugh?"

"Never."

"Freedom," I announce.

A grin spreads across his face.

"I know it sounds cheesy," I say, "How would you describe it?"

"Escape," he suggests.

"Breaking restraints."

"Strength."

"Wild abandon."

"Independence."

"Unmitigated awareness," I say, "The sensation of your gut spilling up to your chest, forcing every worry, care, or emotion out of your body." I look down at him for validation of my theory.

"I know the feeling," Bruce says.

I smile at him and plop to the ground.

"I don't though," I say, "I get snatches of it standing on rooftops or mountains, or on roller coasters, or going down an elevator very fast, but I doubt those can compare."

He shakes his head.

"Do you lunch here often?" I ask him in my best posh impression.

"As often as I can," Bruce replies, mimicking my pretensions, "From here I can study the layout of the entire financial district and crime alley area," Bruce sketches the perimeter of the city blocks in the air, "When flying at night, I need to have the rooftops memorized down to every detail."

"This is how you spend your lunch hour every day?" I ask, "Memorizing never-ending expanses of buildings?"

"I rotate through a list of the tallest buildings in Gotham," he replies, "Monday will be that one." he points to a building roughly ten blocks away from us.

I slip my sketchbook from my bag and start to map out the grid.

"Today's excursion has a higher purpose though," Bruce adds, "Determining an approximate perimeter based on the distance from the Ferris Wheel to the hotel room where the mob boss was assassinated. If a sniper is positioned anywhere within the vicinity, I intend to be ready."

"How?"

"I have some ideas," he says thoughtfully, "but I'm trying to find another way."

"Why?"

"Because the plan is exuberantly expensive and public. Such a large waste of money, even by Bruce Wayne, is guaranteed to raise a few suspicions.

I catch his eyes with mine, "Unlike wasting expensive food, which is an everyday occurance?"

Bruce smiles, fishes around in his briefcase, and pulls out a candy bar. I raise my eyebrows at him in disbelief.

"We traded a delicious lunch downstairs for processed sugar?" I ask incredulously.

He hands me the bar silently. I turn it over in my hands and discover the image of a man clinging to the edge of a sheer cliff printed on the front.

"Or tasteless cardboard," I correct, "Possibly the best, or at least the most expensive, chicken salad sandwich languishes alone on a table, begging to be eaten, and instead you give me energy bars."

"Sometimes I switch to fiber bars."

I snort, "How adventurous of you. Either way I doubt if hiking stairs expends enough energy to merit a form of processed food intended to replenish a mountaineer."

"You'd be surprised."

"Maybe for me, but definitely not for someone as physically fit as you."

"Try it," Bruce gestures to the bar.

"Not hungry," I protest. My stomach betrays me by choosing that moment to growl loudly. The empty sound of rumbling must be somehow triggered by merely thinking about food.

Bruce smirks at me.

"What a weird noise. Perhaps a feral pigeon roosts nearby," I say, pretending to search around distractedly.

He stares pointedly at the energy bar in my hand and then looks up at me from under his eyebrows. That irresistibly adorable half smile melts every bit of stubbornness in me. I unwrap the bar, examine the oats and various unidentifiable crunchy substances fused together by edible glue, and take a bite.

And promptly jerk forward in a half retch. I chew determinedly and swallow.

Bruce's smile grows and he chuckles at my grimace of distaste.

"Worse than cardboard," I inform him, "And…don't ask why I've tried cardboard."

"An acquired taste," Bruce retorts, breaking off a piece of a new bar and eating it with far less theatrics than my attempt.

"Cardboard or energy bars?" I ask.

More chuckles, "Both?" he suggests. "The food downstairs is too rich," he explains, "I follow a strict diet to maintain my strength and agility as Batman. Occasionally eating out is fine, but lunch everyday would be detrimental."

I take another bite. This time I manage to restrain myself from reflexively spitting it out. Both of us crunch loud enough to drown out anything we might say.

"Very clever by the way," I take a break from eating to give my jaw a rest.

"Cardboard or energy bars?" Bruce repeats.

I laugh, "I meant evading the press. Hiding in plain sight. At the top of the world, where anyone can see us, but no one bothers to look. I feel like a spec of dust. So small, and insignificant. Everything slides back into perspective."

"One person in a mass of millions," Bruce agrees, "What difference can one person make?"

"Depends on the person," I reply.

"Bruce Wayne?" he offers, "What difference does he make? Except to provide cautionary tales and endless entertainment."

"You could do a lot more if you chose to," I point out.

He shakes his head, "Fame entraps me. With all the scrutiny I can't drop my mask or else…"

"People might start to question your strange habits," I finish for him.

He nods.

Another long pause in conversation filled only with crunches.

I swivel around to face him and prop my sketchbook on my knees.

"Since you managed to avoid public scrutiny on the roof, I'll have to take their place," I announce with my pencil poised to draw, "Strike a pose!"

"I don't strike poses," Bruce scoffs.

"You're Bruce Wayne. Of course you strike poses," I retort, "Pretend to be gazing out over the kingdom you will own someday."

"Don't turn my life into a Disney movie."

"I'm not turning it into one. The Lion King parallels are already there. Tragic death, early in life, leaves scars, which the protagonist runs away from, until he becomes strong enough to fight back? Sounds familiar to me," I say.

Bruce leans back on his elbow and stares up at the sky, "What about your story? You left Gotham at one point. And yet here you are."

I start to sketch his outline, skimming over his perfectly sculpted face and chest with my eyes, "My dad sent me away from Gotham when I was 15. My mom was long gone at that point and he couldn't bear the thought of being a single parent. I came back when he died."

We sit silently for a while. My usual artistic talent fails me completely. The drawing of Bruce refuses to even vaguely resemble him. No matter how many times I flip the sketchbook and start on a new page, or draw and redraw the shape of his eyes or the line of his jaw, I fail to get it right. My pencil traces the curve of his lower lip and I quickly glance up for reference, only to be caught in his gaze. For a moment I forget how to breathe.

I slam the cover of my sketchbook down hastily put it away.

"Finished already?" Bruce asks.

"The pencil wasn't cooperating," I say dismissively.

He raises an eyebrow at my obviously uncomfortable behavior. I shove my bag off my lap and lie back on the sun warmed cement. Closing my eyes to block out the rays, I also attempt to block the confusing mess of thoughts fighting to escape me. I've only ever had this much difficulty sketching a portrait of someone one time in my life. For five years of my life I loved a philosopher, but in all that time I could never draw him. Not for lack of trying. I filled sketchbooks with his face. But I could never look at him objectively enough to succeed until he dumped me for a normal girl who wanted the 2.5 kids and white picket fence. After that, and after I stopped crying every night before bed, it was easy to detach myself enough to draw ugly portraits of the first man to break my heart. Thankfully that particular romance is long in the past, and the sketchbooks long lost.

Yet now I find myself unable to detach from Bruce Wayne. I sense him recline back next to me. I open one eye and peek over at him. He appears completely serene, eyes closed and hands calmly folded on his stomach. Our elbows nearly touch. the hair on my arm stands on end. I can feel it brushing softly through his when I shift to a more comfortable spot. I close my eyes again and sigh.

A moment later Bruce slips his hand in mine. And somehow, despite everything, for a few hours the world makes sense in the most illogical, irrational, and completely impossible way.

* * *

Thanks to our rooftop excursion, Bruce and I barely make Teresa's interview with Ron Marshall. The tent city is alive with the usual swarm of reporters, curious citizens, and protestors. The overnight transformation from an unknown grassroots movement into a city-wide campaign still amazes me.

"Lyn, Bruce, thank goodness!" Teresa spots us in the midst of the news crew mob and drags us through to the center fire pit.

"Pleased to see me?" Bruce asks with a supercilious smirk.

I shoot him a side glare.

"Don't push your luck, Wayne," Teresa retorts with a grin, "You may have saved my protest with extra funding and a full scale mercenary army, but that doesn't mean I have to like you."

"Actually he probably included that in the contract," I say, "Must befriend wealthy benefactor, or the extra security disappears."

It's Bruce's turn to glare at me. I smile defiantly.

"Except, take away the private security and we're done," Teresa sighs and gestures to a line of riot police surrounding the perimeter of the fire pit, "Marshall insisted on being escorted by his GCPD flunkies."

"Is that entirely necessary?" I ask.

"A show of force," Bruce observes, "And political power."

"Exactly," Teresa grudgingly agrees, 'Marshall wants to prove that he has the full backing of the mayor even if we gained the support of a narcissistic playboy, no offence."

"None taken," Bruce says with a smile.

"Not to mention the veiled threat of possible arrest if any one of us puts a single toe out of line," Teresa adds, crossing her arms angrily.

"Places everyone!" a reporter calls out.

Teresa takes hold of my shoulders and positions me just off camera.

"Stand here; nod your head, and smile," Teresa says, "look supportive, that kind of thing."

"Okay," I reassure her.

"Thank you," she breathes. She sits down on a camp chair next to Bob and faces the camera.

"Hold on," the interviewer says in a mildly annoyed voice that someone might use if they recently stepped in chewing gum, "Who is this?" and gestures to Bob.

"My translator," Teresa explains, "Our movement in support of the homeless seeks to be as inclusive as possible."

The interviewer appeals to Marshall for approval and Marshall shrugs nonchalantly.

"All right," the interviewer says, "Let's get started."

As the interview progresses I wonder why Teresa believed she needed my support. She answers each question thoroughly and concisely. And after every answer, Bob recites a string of Spanish words and signs the English version. He happily ignores every word Marshall utters.

"I'm not accustomed to losing," Marshall drawls with a brilliantly kind smile, "A good businessman doesn't throw his financial support behind a project he might not win. Gotham will win and be awarded with new luxury condos on beautiful residential streets. Downtown will become the place to live; I promise you. Give it one year, maybe two, and the economic prospects of Gotham shall flourish."

"You forget the people who rely on this shelter for support. Our community has fought long and hard to drive out crime here and you are attempting to reap the benefits for your personal gain," Teresa says, "I promise you, the people you displace will not go away. The economic disparity between the rich and the poor in this city grows every year. Analysts praise Gotham for successfully starting to rebuild the city's economy after the recession. The city receives accolades for the glamorous new skyscrapers, or the new additions to the public transportation linking the sports and casino complex. But people overlook the cutting of necessary bus routes workers depend on in order to raise the money to build the new train tracks. And for every luxury condo, entire neighborhoods decay under overgrown weeds and trash. How can you say Gotham is flourishing when we still lead the nation in black poverty? The next time a high profile politician comes to visit, when the police clear the homeless people out from the underpasses again, where do you expect them to turn to if the last safe shelter is demolished?"

Applause breaks out. For the first time Marshall seems to realize opponents surround him completely. His pleasant expression twitches. Teresa stands up, gracefully acknowledges her audience with a nod and a smile, and offers a hand to Marshall. He shakes her hand coldly.

"Well said," Marshall grudgingly admits, "And in the spirit of continued deliberation, I extend an invitation to tonight's evening banquet raising funds for rebuilding the homeless shelter in a more suitable location. I hope to see you and your supporter, Bruce Wayne, there."

Teresa momentarily balks. Chin up and steely looking him square in the face, she announces, "I accept the invitation. You can inform my colleague of the details," she gestures to Bob, "Meanwhile, I must oversee the organization of the August 'first-Friday-of-the-month' breakfast for dinner starting in an hour."

"Hold on," the interviewer objects, "While we have Bruce Wayne and his girlfriend here, we'd like to ask them some questions as well."

I stare wide eyed at Teresa and mouth an adamant 'no'. Bruce laughs and tries to escape but the reporter drags us in front of the camera.

"Mr. Wayne, pleasure to have finally caught up with you," the reporter says, shoving a microphone in Bruce's face.

"The pleasure is entirely yours," Bruce says nonchalantly.

"Tell us your opinions on the current debate over the homeless shelter, Mr. Wayne," the interviewer prompts.

"I don't have opinions," Bruce says casually, "I have the money."

I choke down a snort.

"Certainly you have a reason for siding with Ms. Williams financially?" the interviewer searches for a story in vain.

"Business interests," Bruce explains curtly, "It's all a bit complicated. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

Somehow Bruce manages to disappear, leaving me standing awkwardly alone in front of the camera.

Undeterred, the reporter turns on me, "How does it feel to be the girlfriend of a man rich enough to pay rent for every person here for over a year?"

"uh…" I stutter.

"Bruce Wayne is planning to rebuild a multi-billion dollar mansion outside of Gotham, yet you're supporting a protest against luxury apartments being built right here in downtown," the reporter says, "Compared to the luxury your boyfriend lives in, I think the expense of these apartments is negligible. Preaching financial equality yet indulging in expensive mansions would make some call you and Bruce Wayne hypocrites."

"What my boyfriend does with his money has no relation to me or my political views," I reply curtly.

"Yet you do not deny that you benefit significantly from his extravagant spending? Especially as the tabloids claim you have gone from rags to riches in a matter of weeks," the reporter probes, her eyes positively gleeful at getting a rise out of me. Before I can organize a cohesive answer to her accusations someone slips an arm through mine in a show of solidarity.

"Have you given your home to the poor?" Teresa asks the interviewer.

"I live in a modest apartment…" the interviewer starts to say, looking taken aback.

"And my friend Bob lives in a tent,' Teresa interrupts, "Yet every night if someone is stuck outside in the rain he makes room and lets them in. Now, sharing a tent with Bob is not the most pleasant option, but when compared to rain and cold anything can start to look favorable. So, do you have a couch?"

"Yes," the interviewer replies. She appears confused to be the one answering questions instead of asking.

"And is it occupied during the night?" Teresa asks.

"No," the interviewer scoffs.

"Then why don't you do as you suggest and offer your couch up to the homeless?"

"In Gotham?" the interviewer laughs, "I'd be murdered in my sleep."

"What?" a bystander interrupts the conversation, "Are you implying all homeless people are murderers?"

"No," the interviewer tries to backtrack.

"But you do have a couch, a relative luxury compared to most people in this tent city," Teresa confirms, "And you refuse to share that luxury with others. While at the same time condemning Bruce Wayne for not sharing his luxuries."

"Yes," the interviewer stutters, "No. But…"

"The internal conflict you are currently experiencing is called cognitive dissonance," Teresa explains coldly, "Everyone deals with it. Look it up."

Teresa steers me away from the cameras.

"Thank you," I tell her as soon as we are out of earshot.

"No problem, I hate people who are quick to complain about others but never look in the mirror," Teresa says bitterly, "But if you want to make it up to me you can help serve Breakner at O'Fallon's church tonight."

"Breakner?"

"Breakfast for dinner," Teresa grins, "Hope you enjoy pancakes."

"Only the kind with licorice eyes and whipped cream smiles," Bruce startles us from behind.

Teresa laughs at him, "I will instruct Wei to make you a special one if you join us."

"Sadly, I can't," Bruce's eyes meet mine meaningfully, "I also must regrettably turn down the invitation to Marshall's benefit tonight."

"Better plans?" Teresa asks.

"I'm sick," he coughs, "Food poisoning."

"Intentional or accidental?" Teresa asks with a smile.

"Both," he replies.

"You don't look sick," I conclude, "And who else will I go with?"

"I'm sick internally," he makes a face, "Why not ask Bob?"

I laugh, but his joke gives me an idea. If the public so desperately wants to pin me to the Cinderella narrative, I might as well have fun with it.

* * *

Hours later, in O'Fallon's church basement, I'm saddled with the job of applying the toppings to pancakes served up by Wei, who turns out to be a master on the griddle. Teresa stands next to me, dishing out scrambled eggs by the spoonful. Wei offers me a plate teetering with a two feet tall stack of pancakes. The diameter of each pancake is roughly the size of my head.

"We don't get to eat until after everyone else has had their fill," Wei says for the second time that evening in a slightly mournful tone.

"Just in case we run out," Teresa reminds him, "We can always get more supplies for our dinner later."

Wei grimaces and rubs his flat stomach.

"You ate pizza three hours ago!" Teresa admonishes.

"I need a lot of food to sustain me," Wei states as he returns to cooking, "If I pass out at the griddle at least let me land on a pancake."

"Pass out into a pancake and it's yours. No spreading germs here," Teresa calls after him.

Unfortunately, I'm bored with pancake topping duty after my first ten pancakes. Recalling Bruce's comment about smiley faces, I pick up a blank protest board and a couple magic markers from the corner of the room. After scrawling out a sign I prop the board against the toppings buffet and add an empty cardboard box next to it.

"What are you doing?" Teresa asks suspiciously.

"Ruining my reputation by being myself," I announce. Teresa leans across the table to investigate the poster upside down.

"Lend any article of clothing for one night and receive a special masterpiece pancake," Teresa reads aloud, "Masterpiece pancake?"

In response I flip a pancake onto a single plate and start to load it up with toppings. Once I'm finished I hand Teresa a pancake transformed into a face.

"Very nice," Teresa says, "A close likeness to Ron Marshall. I knew his fancy speeches were too syrupy sweet to be true."

My enterprise gains the attention of the people waiting in line for their pancakes. Soon my artistic talent becomes high in demand. A crowd gathers around the buffet, watching in awe as I paint a replica of the Mona Lisa on a pancake using peanut butter, butter, and various syrup flavors. An even larger line forms. People don't seem to mind that my strange combinations don't end up very tasty. Teresa fields requests and starts organizing a waiting system to allow guests to watch their pancake being made. And luckily, everyone is perfectly content to let me borrow the one thing everyone finds superfluous in the summer: wooly winter accessories. My empty box fills with discarded gloves, mittens, hats, scarves, and even a well loved pair of 80's era jellies. The jellies are a lovely shade of royal purple interspersed with flecks of gold and match a star studded scarf perfectly. I mentally remind myself to make those the highlight of my evening wear.

"What is going on out here?" Wei interrupts my work on the tenth pancake, "We're getting a backlog of pancakes."

"Lyn is stretching her artistic reach," Teresa jokes, displaying a pancake covered in a syrup and butter sunset.

Wei scrutinizes the pancake carefully and disappears back into the kitchen. Teresa catches my eye and we both burst into giggles. Our laughter is cut short when the next pancake comes out of the kitchen in the shape of Mickey Mouse.

"You're going to have to up your game," Teresa tells me as the kids nearest the front of the buffet table start requesting a Mickey pancake of their own.

"Let's hope the Mouse's copyright police don't descend," I retort. After successfully covering Mickey with black licorice and Oreo cookies to create his face, I hand the pancake off to a kid. Wei's next creative pancake vaguely resembles sleeping beauty's castle.

"I probably don't want to know how he is achieving such shapes," I comment.

"As long as he doesn't violate health code, anything is fine by me," Teresa responds.

Before breakner ends I manage to decorate one Space Needle, one TARDIS, a dozen Disney characters, one Luxo Jr., two hydroplanes, and a variety of other shapes, including one triangle that Wei called the tri-force along with instructing me to 'color the three side triangles and leave the center triangle blank' and a ring that he said was 'the one'.

After everyone leaves, I cross the street to the parking lot, and duck into Teresa's tent carrying my box of borrowed clothes. I dump the contents on the ground and start sorting by color. Protestors apparently favor a wide variety of vibrant colors. I hang a cheap, skin-tight black dress from the center tent pole. Digging around inside my messenger bag, I pull out the knitting emergency kit Eleanor insists I carry at all times. I used to question the necessity of over two hundred safety pins, but times like these remind me to always adhere to the wisdom of age, even when it might seem crazy. I open the plastic container, unhook a couple pins, and begin to construct my sculpture.

"Dear god, Lyn, what have you done?" Jessica asks the minute she steps through the tent flap.

I guiltily look up from the pink scarf I'm pinning to an orange mitten.

"Making my evening gown," I reply casually.

"Huh," Jessica says. She blinks at my creation for a minute, nods, and then sits down on a pillow.

I continue to work in silence. Occasionally I sneak glances at Jessica's frozen expression. I'm beginning to wonder if her sporadic eye twitch stems from overwork or my gown when she makes a strangled noise.

"I think a lost and found box threw up wooly accessories all over your dress in rainbow blotches," she announces with a pained expression.

I stand back and examine my handiwork.

"It sparkles too," Jessica chokes.

"That would be the two hundred safety pins holding everything together," I explain.

"Giving it a slight resemblance to Cinderella's rag dress before her fairy godmother put it out of it's misery," Jessica tilts her head in bemusement, "Or a Christmas tree. How did you get the skirt so poofy?"  
"Multiple layers," I say, lifting a glove to reveal another behind it.

"Must be heavy," Jessica comments.

"Vastly," I reply, "But I've developed some muscle lately, so I can handle it."

"Whatever you do," Jessica warns, "don't show my sister or else she'll want one, and I want her to appear socially acceptable tonight."

"Fair enough," I say and pin another scarf in the shape of a bow to the waist.

"You realize, as Bruce Wayne's girlfriend, your dress will make all the society papers and blogs," Jessica warns.

"All part of the plan," I say, "If people wish to judge me superficially, at least let the superficiality say something about my personality."

"As long as you realize what you're getting into. Teresa doesn't understand social cues or trends very well," Jessica laments, "I insisted she go to the benefit alone for that exact reason. I can't always be there to hold her hand whenever she deals with someone of the upper class. Sometimes I worry she relies on me too much."

"She was perfectly capable in the interview today," I remind her.

"Teresa gives wonderful interviews and demolishes opponents in debates," Jessica readily agrees, "But that's exactly her problem. She can't be diplomatic. She desperately holds on to her idealistic worldview and expects people to eventually agree with her if she presents reasonable truths to them often enough. She can't deal with unreasonable people, or people who don't share her perspective."

"Hence her hatred of Bruce," I comment.

"Exactly," Jessica giggles, "I'm almost dying to go tonight simply to see how Teresa survives a room full of socialites with trust funds. Her coping mechanism for well-intentioned ignorance will be put to the test."

"I think, sometimes, as her older sister, you underestimate her," I point out.

"True," Jessica sighs, "I guess it's my prerogative to worry."

I nod and pin the finishing touch on my dress. Triumphantly I take my sketchbook out of my messenger bag and deposit it in the stealthily hidden scarf satchel attached to the skirt. My various other purse necessities, including the knitting kit, disappear into gloves, hats, and mittens.

"Walking in that dress will be like lifting weights," Jessica says wryly.

"But I will be prepared for anything," I grin at her.

Teresa ducks into the tent and nearly collides with my heavy, wooly monstrosity.

"Wow," Teresa exclaims, "Awesome!"

"No," Jessica says sternly.

"I don't want to wear it," Teresa snaps, "I am wearing the lovely number you selected." She sarcastically turns on the spot displaying her elegant, canary yellow gown.

"She picked the color," Jessica tells me with lackluster enthusiasm.

"The color matches my earrings," Teresa brushes back a lock of hair to show off a dove shaped earring sporting bright yellow dangling eggs.

"Teresa really…." Jessica starts to complain.

"Nah, you can't say anything," Teresa interrupts, "You promised I could pick out my own jewelry."

"I did," Jessica rubs her forehead wearily.

"I like the doves," I say.

"You would," Jessica raises an eyebrow at my dress.

"Thank you," Teresa nods at me and throws a triumphant smile at Jessica.

"Two people sharing the same taste doesn't mean you have any," Jessica adds, "It merely means you are both tasteless."

"You look great, Teresa," I override Jessica's criticisms. Teresa's transformation into a sleek, well-groomed socialite is astounding. For the first time, I can see the family resemblance between her and Jessica. But Teresa wears her newfound glamour as if it is a burden rather than natural.

"I feel ordinary," she replies with a glower.

"All the better to blend in," Jessica says, "You need to instill a good impression. Show the elite how easy it is to break into their world if one knows the rules."

"I don't want to break into their world," Teresa says, "I want to break it period."

"Don't tell them that," Jessica laughs.

"Not looking forward to the benefit?" I ask Teresa.

"Most definitely not," Teresa replies.

"I don't know how you could not be looking forward to it with the supremely handsome Jon escorting you," Jessica sighs.

"Has Jon shown up yet?" Teresa asks as she distractedly throws her cell phone into a clutch.

"Not yet," Jessica says with disapproval in her voice.

Teresa sighs and glares at her sister, "Stop being so judgmental."

"I'm not judging!" Jessica protests.

"You are," Teresa says, "You have that constipated face."

"What face?" Jessica demands, "I don't have a face."

"You do. And you're making it now," Teresa says and turns to me, "Jessica disapproves of me bringing Jon as my date."

"The boy is half in love with you!" Jessica accuses Teresa.

"And that's a bad thing?" I ask with a grin.

"Yes," Teresa and Jessica reply simultaneously. Jessica's tone self righteous and Teresa's exasperated.

"She's still pining after Mr. White Knight Dent," Jessica gestures to Teresa.

"Still?" I ask.

"I'm not pining," Teresa shrugs and straightens up in defiance.

"Yes you are," Jessica argues, "That stance you took right now? Harvey's. You're still subconsciously using his mannerisms."

Teresa shakes her head.

"And that one," Jessica adds.

Teresa looks to me for help.

"The gesture was reminiscent of Dent," I admit.

"Anyway," Teresa snatches up her bag, "The state of Gotham's homeless takes precedence over my love life."

"One guess which is more important to Jon right now," Jessica muses.

"Maybe, but not to me," Teresa turns on her heel and walks out, "Call me when he arrives."

"She secretly enjoys the drama," Jessica smirks at me, "A welcome distraction from the bigger issues."

"I know the feeling," I say. I unclip my dress from the tent pole and hold it up in front of me with a sigh and a pause for dramatic effect, "I maybe need help getting into this."

Jessica's eyes travel from the five layers of gloves in the skirt to the oversized scarf bow at the waist and bursts into laughter. The difficulty of getting into the dress proves second only to the difficulty of getting Bruce out of his Batman costume after a long night of crime fighting. After a couple of failed attempts, Jessica finally manages to throw the dress over my head as I drag downwards on the skirt.

Teresa pops her head into the tent, "He sent a limo! The place is only two blocks away and Ron Marshall sends a limo. He's as bad as Bruce Wayne."

"Worse," I retort instinctively. At least Bruce is conscious of the irony.

"Whatever," Teresa rolls her eyes, "Hurry up. Jon is here and we're ready to leave."

"Is Bob ready?" I call after her.

"What?" she asks.

"My date," I repeat, "Is he ready?"

Teresa laughs, "I'll go find him."

* * *

If someone could build the ideal place for an assassination to occur it would be the Marshall Corporation Headquarters. A few years ago, to the dismay of the poverty stricken citizens of Gotham, Ron Marshall constructed a lavish, sparkling palace to house his company and his private apartment in the middle of downtown using entirely glass, the construction material his company is known for. Hiding behind glass walls is impossible, unless a person contrives to spend the entire night in the bathroom, the one place the curtains remain closed.

My first hour at Marshall's benefit is spent hovering behind Teresa like an overprotective mother bear. A bear with scratchy rainbow fur who only converses with Bob or the hired help and knocks over two ice sculptures thanks to the extra two feet diameter of skirt swathing my legs. Halfway through the night Teresa deposits me at one of the buffet tables and requests I allow her to speak to the Mayor alone. I sheepishly oblige.

I munch on expensive hummus and impeccable carrot sticks while I scope the room. I might as well make myself useful. Somewhere above me sits Ron Marshall's computer, potentially containing incriminating data on Floyd Lawton. A lone security guard stands in front of a single glass elevator in the corner. The more security, the more private the area, so undoubtedly the elevator takes me nearer to Marshall's room. I shake my head back to mess up my hair a little, snatch a glass of wine from the nearest server, twirl to make my dress poof out further for fun, and down the entire drink. Unfortunately the drink turns out to be water. I smile and laugh awkwardly at the waiter as I plunk the empty glass down on the tray tipsily. Hopefully no one recalls I haven't actually had any alcohol yet. I weave my way through the crowds pretending to dance with an invisible partner. Along the way I step on at least twenty different toes and manage to accidentally smash a civil servant's mini quiche into her face. Eventually I reach the elevator where a horrified Genevieve confronts me before I can drunkenly beg for directions to the nearest upstairs bathroom.

"My god girl," Genevieve exclaims quietly, "I do believe Bruce Wayne has been a bad influence on you."

"Undoubtedly," I slur. I grin at her in passing and try to continue on my way.

She grabs my elbow, "I think you've made enough of a fool out of yourself for one night."

"Not yet," I inform her while tripping over my own feet, "Haven't beaten darling Brucie."

"You have tonight, dear," Gen says, "He's not even here."

"I know," I say, "That cheater." I grab Gen's drink and start to take a sip.

"I thought he was sick," Gen corrects me.

"Lies!" I cry, slopping the drink onto the floor.

"You've had enough of this," Gen pries the wine glass from my hands and gives it to a passing waiter. She helps me over to the elevator.

"Madame Genevieve," the security guard inclines his head.

"Evening," Gen replies, "I'm taking Lynnet to one of the guest rooms near mine to lie down."

The guard nods and opens the elevator for us. Genevieve drags me in. She drags me out again on the next floor up. We walk down a vast hallway. One side is entirely glass and provides breathtaking views of Gotham city. We end up in a dimly lit guest room. Two of the walls are lined with floor to ceiling curtains. I relinquish my hold on Gen and collapse onto the bed. With my head muffled in a pillow I hear her sigh and tell me to stay here while she gets some coffee from her room. The minute the door shuts I sit up straight. I slip underneath a corner of the curtain and press my face to the glass, momentarily wondering whose job it is to clean every pane and how miserable that must be. Outside the room is a rooftop courtyard of immeasurable size crowded with lush trees and bushes. Unfortunately the door to the courtyard is not underneath my curtain. I slip out of it and am about to search the other wall when I spot Genevieve's purse sitting temptingly on the floor next to the bed. I kneel down and dig through. Pushing all my concerns over personal privacy aside, I remind myself Genevieve's son killed a mob boss and poses a threat to Teresa. Triumphantly I snatch out her diary and shove it in an overlarge glove in my dress. Right before the hallway door bangs open I fall limply back on the bed and moan.

"I'm sorry Lyn," Gen sympathizes, "I know how you're feeling right now." She backs into the room, kicks the door shut, and carries the coffee tray to the nightstand.

"Oh ew tone," I mumble into the pillow.

"I do," she sits on the edge of the bed and rubs my back, "George has never been faithful. Not a month after the wedding and he was already finding excuses to 'stay late' at the office. It comes with having wealthy husbands, I'm afraid."

I push myself up onto my elbow and stare at her, "I'm sorry," I say softly.

"You learn to ignore it," Genevieve assures me, "He may enjoy his mistresses, but he loves his wife. Somewhere. Deep down," she gives me a pathetic smile, "Or so we must hope."

I groan and flop onto my back, "I don't feel well."

"Then don't lie on your back," Genevieve pulls me up, "You probably need to throw up."

"Toilet?" I ask.

"Right there," she gestures to a door at the end of the bed.

I slide off the silvery comforter and escape into the midnight blue tiled bathroom. I turn the faucet on to hide the lack of noise and flush the toilet a couple times. Finding a window to escape from is trickier. Silver curtains frame the tub inlaid in the floor. I pull back one and discover the only portion of the window that opens is the top third. I overturn the waste bin and prop it under the window. Pushing the window open, I stick my arms and head out first. Wriggling my shoulders past the sill is easy. Unfortunately, like most women my hips are significantly wider than my shoulders, and I have an extra couple inches of bulk thanks to the dress. I get stuck halfway through. In desperation I stare out at the black garden in search of something to help.

I can't wait for my eyes to adjust to the sudden darkness. Every minute means another minute Genevieve might start worrying. I grope blindly in front of me and thankfully smack a sturdy tree branch. Instead of gracefully pulling myself free, I end up spinning about like a corkscrew. I brace my feet against the bathroom wall but the slippery tiles fail to give me a good grip. Still hanging onto the tree to take the weight off my butt, I rest my head on my arms. One of the glass gargoyles hanging over the roof inches above me silently judges my predicament.

"Not my best plan ever" I confide to the gargoyle with a sigh.

He smirks, "Need help?"

I gasp, let go of the branch in shock, and end up dangling out the window by my knees. The gargoyle smoothly drops down from his perch with a flutter of black cape.

"Not from you," I growl and try to swing up towards the branch again.

"Are you sure?' he asks politely. His sarcastic grin belies his gracious manner.

I swing down again and give him my meanest glare, "I didn't know Gargoyles could talk."

"They do in animated movies about hunchbacks," he replies.

"Your life is not an animated movie," I say, "yet. Give the entertainment industry a couple years and I'm sure they'll come up with something," I let my hands fall limply down. The blood starts to rush to my head. "And I'm stuck. A little help would be greatly appreciated," I add resentfully.

He effortlessly lifts me out of the window.

"Thank you," I say, mimicking his exaggerated politeness and sweeping an awkward curtsey in my mitten dress.  
His eyes bore into me for a minute before he turns, cape swirling, and marches deeper into the courtyard. I dog his footsteps as he expertly navigates through the maze of overgrown trees and bushes.

"Is this part of the extremely expensive plan?" I ask. Twigs snag on various knitted items embedded in my dress. Batman notices and starts holding back the worst branches.

"It is," he replies.

"And you're still not telling me anything."

"Strictly need to know…."

"Sometimes I wonder why I work with you."

He stops in front of a smaller, elevator sized glass tower in the middle of the courtyard and turns to face me. The tower soars higher than any of the peripheral spires. Shrouded in clouds, a barely visible dome balances precariously on the tip. Batman wraps an arm around my waist.

"Hold on," he warns.

In response I wrap my arms around his neck tightly. He lifts his free arm to the sky and fires a line gun at the dome. We soar into the air, his cape trailing behind us. I glance over my shoulder at the rapidly receding ground beneath me and my breath catches with excitement. Before my brain can fully register the adrenaline rush, we jerk to a stop and Batman helps me clamber onto the balcony, a truly difficult feat thanks to my gown. Batman climbs up after me and runs his hand along the bank of windows in search of a latch. His glove finds a window cracked open an inch and he fumbles with it for a half second.

"Allow me," I say, pulling out a knitting needle from a stocking cap on my dress. I expertly slide the needle into the window and use the flat end to unlock the latch, "You've never locked yourself out of your mansion before?" I ask him.

"Butler," he reminds me and heaves the window open.

"Bet he knows the trick," I reply. I gather up my skirt, stick a leg through the window, and duck into the dark room. After a brief tussle with the curtain, I emerge victorious and glance around. A glittering glass turret arches above the circular room. Multicolored blown glass objects hang from invisible wires. As I admire the scenery, Batman sets up an electronic system far beyond my technical knowledge at the nearest table and triggers the hold button on the elevator to prevent unwanted interruptions.

"Going to tell me what this does?" I ask, examining the various wires and antennas on the table.

"I calculated the distance from the Ferris Wheel to the Edgewater and estimated D.S's firing range," he explains, "I rented out every building within that range for the entire night. The system will alert me to any activity in any of those buildings."

"Sounds thorough," I say.

"I hope," he replies, "Help me open the curtains."

Making my way around the room, I lug on the heavy silver cords that swing each set of curtains open. Pinpricks of light from the nearby buildings trickle in through the windows. At the last curtain I stop and stand next to the dark shape of Batman, silhouetted against the city haze.

"And now…you wait?" I ask.

He nods.

"I have never been very good at waiting," I admit nervously, "Makes me feel useless, helpless. I can't stand that feeling."

"Control," Batman says.

"What?"

"Waiting seems to take control out of your hands," he continues.

"I suppose," I agree, "yes."

"You forget, by not making the first move, you control the reaction," he explains.

"And that's true as well," I say, "But what happens if we haven't prepared enough for the first move?"

His lack of reply to my slightly rhetorical question says enough. Neither of us wants to consider that outcome. We watch the city below in silence. The loud music from the party echoes up the glass elevator tower and through the single open window. Feeling restless, I step closer to listen.

"They're playing our song," I joke.

He looks at me in a manner which tells me that, if I could see them, his eyebrows would be raised sardonically.

"Spelunking," I add, "by Laura Veirs."

The familiarity of the song title draws a slight smile from him.

"Pine for the lamplight where you lie," I recite the lyrics, "If I took you, darling, to the caverns of my heart, would you light the lamp dear?"

He turns to face me and Bruce's smile appears beneath Batman's cowl, making a strange combination.

"Would you light the lamp and see fish without eyes?" I ask, "And bats with their heads hanging down towards the ground?"

Memories of our connection to spelunking, bats, and caves linger unspoken between us.

"Would you still come around?" I finish repeating the line, grin at him, and offer my hand, "Care to dance while we wait? Since you deprived me of my grand ball down below?"

Bruce's grin widens and he replies, "Bats don't dance."

"They don't?" I ask, "I seem to remember a tiny white bat knowing all the latest dance steps and how to get really crazy with the hips in another 90's animated movie. If gargoyles can talk, bats can dance."

Smirking at me, he takes my hand, slips an arm around my waist, and we stiffly turn in place with the music. The cold Kevlar plating on his chest and his mesh gloves drain any warmth from our touch.

"You should amend your statement to 'bats can dance, but they can't dance well," I comment.

"Normally when people dance, they don't talk."

"Normally when people infiltrate villain's evil lairs they don't end up dancing."

"All your talk of evil is ruining the mood," Bruce accuses.

"Your big black suit is ruining the mood," I retort.

Bruce snorts.

"Sorry, that was not up to my usual caliber," I say.

"You're losing your touch."

"Or I'm simply finding it more difficult to insult you."

I can sense his eyebrows rising beneath the cowl again.

"It was so much easier to fire back sarcastic retorts when I thought you truly were an arrogant attention seeker," I explain.

"I'm not?"

"Not at all."

The circumstances should make this the most unromantic dance ever. Yet his gaze fills me with an excitement; a thrill of being completely, utterly alive. We're barely moving, yet I'm breathless. And all I can see is him.

I lean in closer and whisper the last line of the Spelunking song, "I believe in you. In your honesty. In your eyes…"

He freezes in place and takes my face in his hand. Our eyes meet. We kiss.

An instant later the entire room floods with multicolored light emanating from the hanging glass orbs. Bruce and I immediately break apart.

"Lyn?" a voice asks.

"Teresa?" I reply, glancing around in confusion, "Where are you?"

"The elevator wasn't working, so I took the stairs," Teresa says and appears out of a previously unnoticed hole in the floor.

"Stairs?" I repeat and turn back to Bruce with an accusatory glare, only to discover I'm alone. Sneaky bats and their disappearing abilities.

"Yeah, they spiral around the elevator shaft. Most people don't realize," Teresa replies, "What were you doing up here alone with the lights off? And I thought I heard Bruce Wayne's voice."

"I was on the phone," I bluff, "With Bruce."

"The voice sounded loud," Teresa says suspiciously, "And weird somehow."

"Speaker phone," I nearly falter in my lies, "And he is sick after all. Not quite himself. You know."

"I was under the impression that was a lie contrived solely for the press," Teresa folds her arms and stares me down, "Considering he seemed perfectly healthy the last time I saw him."

"I guess he came down with something in the meantime," I fish pathetically for an excuse.

Teresa laughs, "I don't believe it," she sits down on a chaise lounge and puts her feet up, "Finally I've managed to fluster the great Lynnet Pearl who always has a sly remark at the ready. So what's the truth? Is Bruce hiding behind a curtain? Is this part of the secret you two hide from the rest of the world? That drunk act downstairs was hilarious, by the way. I doubt I'll be receiving anymore invitations from Ron Marshall anytime soon. And Jessica will have a fit. Genius," she raises her glass to me, "what's your next more?" and takes a sip, "I came up here to escape. I'm beginning to understand your constant need to hide when among these people. If I get one more white lady or gentleman expecting me to represent my entire race with my answers or asking me where the bathroom is, I'm going to start trolling people by making stuff up."

All I can get out is a very loquacious, "Um."

"You look flushed, Lyn," Teresa observes with a grin, "Is Bruce really hiding behind a curtain? I was being factitious but…"

"Nope, no curtains," I say and ruffle the curtain nearest the open window to prove my honesty. As I do so I notice a conspicuous black hole outside the window where building lights should have been.

"Because he couldn't be hiding behind any of the other ten identical curtains in the room," Teresa drawls, "It's okay Lyn, I get you," she leans back and gazes up at the glowing glass, "I have this theory that you and Bruce enjoy a forbidden, dangerous twist to your romance. You have a thing for bad boys, so he pretends to one, even though you both know he's not. Secretly. Meanwhile, I seem to thrive off of unrequited love. That way, I can pour all my focus into my life's work, and love becomes a side thing I don't have time for, and would never happen anyway. I missed whatever social indoctrination ordered people to pair up and spend all their energy trying to find that life companion. And I'm glad. And people don't understand that."

"Teresa?" I ask hesitantly, "How much wine have you had tonight?"

"Not enough," she laughs, "God, sometimes I hate people. A part of me wishes to go back to being a kid when nothing frightened me and I loved everyone and everything blindly."

I realize Batman is listening in on Teresa's tipsy, heartfelt confession and I pantomime for him to go away. He fails to see this since his back is turned to the window, trying to blend in with the sky.

"How could you miss the stairs?" I hiss under my breath through the window.

"You distracted me," he replies over his shoulder, "With dancing."

"Don't you dare," I start, "You had plenty of time when we were standing around doing nothing."

"Distracting," he insists.

"Oh, doing nothing is distracting?" I ask.

"It's not what you are doing," he says and turns his head so I can see a single, glittering eye, "it's you."

He startles me into silence. I turn away, in case Teresa becomes aware of the side conversation.

"I can track the alert system remotely," Batman whispers, "Make sure it stays turned on." He jumps off the balcony and soars into the night.

My heart is doing funny things and I can't seem to breathe again.

"Lyn, are you idealistic?" Teresa asks.

"What?" I stutter, slightly disappointed at being dragged down to reality.

"Jessica believes I am," she continues, "And she thinks my idealism makes me vulnerable."

"I think a little healthy idealism never heart anybody," I reply and drop onto a couch with a poof. I pull out my sketchbook hidden inside my dress, "This dress is growing on me," I remark, "Quite handy, if a bit cumbersome."

"It looks good on you too," Teresa compliments, "like a princess. Cinderella. If Cinderella owned purple jellies instead of glass slippers."

"Thanks," I say and start to draw.

"I'm serious about Jess though," Teresa says, "She sees me as the same idealistic, innocent kid I was ten years ago."

"She's your older sister," I point out, "You'll always be a little kid to her."

"True," Teresa giggles, "Even when I'm old and grey haired. Funny thing is, I rely on her perception of me. Gotham wears you down. Sometimes the only way to fight it is to bury your head in the sand against all the demoralizing shit happening every day and still try to believe the best in people. Somehow, having her believe in me, helps me believe in myself, and I can act the part even when I'm not feeling it."

"Why do you need to act?" I ask.

"Because I want it so badly to be truth. Instead of me being a severely unappreciated actress. If I was in a movie, I'd win an Oscar, or whatever those fancy awards are," she says, "I want all those lofty goals to be real, to be possible. But sometimes I worry that the hope I'm clinging to is false, and I feel. So. Tired."

She closes her eyes. Teresa is not normally one for gratuitous movement but during our discussion she lies perfectly still, almost as if she is posing and completely aware of my sketching. I finish the portrait of her and slip the book back into my dress.

"Truth is, I'm terrified," she whispers.

"Of what?" I ask, "Of Marshall's retaliation?"

In response she reaches into a concealed pocket sewn in her dress and hands me a folded slip of paper. I unfold it and read the scratchy writing aloud, "Stop or else."

"It's on Wayne Enterprises stationary," Teresa says, "Even though it didn't mention her name, I know it's referencing Jessica."

"Why would he target Jessica?" I ask.

"Because it's the one thing that would make me fall apart," Teresa admits, "I'm willing to sacrifice myself, but I can't stand the thought of losing someone. And it would be my fault. Jessica always warns, 'you're too loud', 'you never get anywhere with people by yelling at them, or getting in their face, you need to come at them from a place of understanding', or my favorite 'you shock people too much.' I keep arguing my tactics are the only way to get attention. Otherwise it would be just me pleading to an empty room and no matter how reasonable or righteous my demands were, it would still be an empty room."

"And now you have attention," I say, "Marshall is scared. I read the reports archived in Wayne Enterprises. He's staking his entire company's future on this venture. And if people start researching his plans for gentrification, they might examine his previous construction projects and I have good reason to believe those were not entirely clean."

"Should I get people looking at his old records?" Teresa asks.

"I'm handling that," I say, "Don't worry, I'll catch him."

"Thanks," she laughs bitterly, "I have been campaigning against Marshall's construction project for over a year now. It didn't really make the news until you and Bruce got involved. I wish, for once, people would listen without needing some kind of incentive or perceived personal connection to their own lives."

"We're all selfish deep down, I guess," I say.

"You don't believe that," Teresa shakes her head.

"Sometimes I do."

"I don't want to believe that."

We contemplate the possibility. Eventually my phone rings, breaking through our thoughts. The name on the ID reads Jessica.

"Hello?" I ask.

"Lyn? Is my sister with you?" Jessica's voice sounds worried.

"Yes," I say, watching Teresa. Teresa sits up and stares at me questioningly.

"Don't tell her anything," Jessica warns, "But I think I need your help."

"Why?" I ask.

"Someone calling themselves Deadshot is threatening me," she explains, "Graffiti in front of the tent. Rumor on the street says it's an assassin who killed a mob boss a couple days ago."

"I'll be right there," I say, jumping up, "Don't go outside. Wait for me."

"What's going on?" Teresa stands with me, sobering up surprisingly quickly.

"Jessica," I say, "She didn't want me to say anything but I need you to know, and to go downstairs and act like nothing has changed."

"Consider it done," Teresa says, "But what are you planning? Shouldn't I come back with you?"

"You need to stay safe too," I explain as we get in the elevator, "Keep to groups and away from windows.'

"Wait, did you know something about this before the call?" she asks.

"I didn't want to give you another reason to worry," I say without meeting her eyes.

"Oh my god," Teresa breathes, "I thought I was just more tipsy than I realized. I didn't hallucinate you being in a lip lock with Batman before I turned the lights on. I caught a brief glimpse of those pointy ears. You're working with him, aren't you? Like a sidekick?"

"You must be drunk," I scoff, "I hope that doesn't affect your acting skills. And this isn't exactly the time for jokes."

"I'm not joking," Teresa says, "Suddenly all the secrets make sense. Oh my god, is Bruce Wayne Batman?"

"Maybe you should lie down," I start to suggest.

"Bruce Wayne couldn't be Batman," Teresa says to herself, "I remember how useless he was during the scarecrow kidnapping. Which means you're cheating on Bruce Wayne! With some unknown crusader!"

"Don't repeat that please, the tabloids will pick it up," I say, "And they don't need to spread more lies."

The elevator pings on the first floor but before I get out Teresa grabs my arm.

"Tell me or don't tell me, but if you are working with him, save her," Teresa says, her eyes startlingly hard and clear, "I don't care what happens to me. Save Jessica."

"Stay safe," I tell her. I remove her hand from my arm and push my way through the crowd to the main bank of elevators. I don't tell her that I have no intention of informing Batman of the new development. I know, despite Teresa's pleading, that Teresa is more important to her campaign and the fight against Deadshot right now. Jessica will have to settle with my help. I only wish I had a better plan.

On the first floor I retrieve my wrap from the coat check and run outside. Driving rain pours down from the sky dramatically.

Why does everything go wrong at once?

I throw my wrap around my head and arms in an attempt to keep the rain from blurring my glasses, wishing they had windshield wipers attached. I hike up my skirt, hope for the best, and run.

"Escaping the ball at midnight, Cinderella?" a stranger on the street yells after me.

I fail to save the last layer of winter accessories on my dress. I can feel the skirt get progressively lighter as bits drop off and progressively heavier as the synthetic yarns soak up the rain. A trail of abandoned hats, scarves, and gloves follows me down the two blocks to the tent city. I round the corner and dive into Teresa's tent.

"Get undressed," I announce to Jessica.

"What?" she asks and watches in confusion as I start to peel the wet dress off.

"You're going to wear my dress and wrap, and run the three blocks to Cardinal O'Fallon's church," I explain, "I'm going to wear your hoodie and head the opposite direction."

"And you think that will fool this guy?" Jessica asks, looking doubtful but pulling of her sweatshirt and jeans.

"He doesn't know we know yet," I explain.

"Who is 'we'?" Jessica asks.

"Teresa and our security team," I say, leaving out the bit about Batman.

"Won't this transfer the danger to you?" Jessica asks.

"Hopefully he'll miss," I answer.

"Don't be stupid," Jessica snaps.

"Too late," I say, "Got any better ideas?"

She silently takes my gown and pulls it on. I help her cover her head and arms with the wrap. Once dressed in our respective disguises we step outside simultaneously. Jessica starts to half run, half walk in the direction of the church. My feet stay planted on the sidewalk as I stare in disbelief at the ground.

I can't move. I know I should run, but I can't. It takes all my brain power to process the three letters encircled by a target with an arrow through the center: DOA. Spray painted blood drips from the hole in the 'O' and forms the word 'Deadshot' underneath the target. Lawton never intended to kill Teresa or Jessica. He planned to shoot me. His target was the head of Department of Archives all along. Which meant…

"Jessica!" I scream, tearing off my hood. She skids to a stop and the wrap falls off her head. Relief surges through me. No one could mistake her for me now. She stares at me in shock.

"What are you doing?" she yells.

I ignore her and search the windows above me. I'm not dead yet, which means either the threat was intended to be a warning or something interfered with Lawton's plot. My phone starts to ring.

"Hello?" I ask.

"Is Jess safe?" Teresa asks in return.

"Yes," I say.

"Good," Teresa says, "Marshall wants me to get up on stage and give a speech."

"Are there windows around the stage?"

"There are windows everywhere," she reminds me, "And even if it were possible, I'm not hiding. I'm not giving in to Marshall's scare tactics. One can't hide forever, remember?"

"I know," I reply.

"I'm waiting off stage now, but as soon as I'm done I'll come back to…" a shot drowns out Teresa's last words. Immediately I drop the phone and stagger backwards away from it.

"Lyn!" Jessica runs toward me and picks the phone up.

I know what happened. I can imagine the pandemonium occurring on the other end of the phone. My mind transports me back to the glass castle, recalls the stage in vivid detail, counts the buttons on Teresa's dress, and reconstructs the exact layout of the windows. My ears fill with nonexistent screaming and more gunshots.

"Teresa?" Jessica repeats into the phone. The pause between each name stretches into hours, "Teresa? Teresa? Teresa?"

I've been through this before, so I know what happens next. If I stay still, if I stop thinking, maybe I can prevent the inevitable. Flashbacks grip me. I remember the yellow of the carpet and the old phone from the 1980's. I remember his last words.

"Someone please pick up the phone," Jessica begs.

I need to escape. I want to run but my legs are exhausted. I still can't move. Instead I sink to my knees. My forehead touches the A sprayed on the concrete. The rain pools in the lens of my glasses and I cry. Jessica sits next to me in shocked silence, the phone discarded on the ground.

I haven't cried in six years. I'm making up for it now. It hurts. My chest and hands shake. The pain makes breathing difficult. I failed again. After a while the sobbing becomes dry heaving and I'm left gasping for breath. I focus my entire concentration on breathing. The need to run slowly drains out of me, replaced by numb cold. Jessica and I remain pristinely still, staring blankly at the graffiti in front of us.

Eventually a car rolls to a stop. I watch as Alfred bundles Jessica into the car. She goes unquestioning, and the car pulls away. I can't take my eyes off the 'O'.

A black cape folds over my head, shielding me from the rain. Batman crouches next to me, his arm hovering protectively above my shoulder.

"What went wrong?" I ask.

"Floyd Lawton's range is longer than any assassin I've ever encountered," Bruce explains, "I was too late."

Silence as we stare down at the graffiti naming Floyd Lawton's next target.

"What now?" I ask.

"I don't know," the defeat in his voice is unmistakable.


End file.
